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BLACK CHANTER 

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THE BLACK CHANTER 


AND OTHER 
HIGHLAND STORIES 


BY 

NIMMO CHRISTIE 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1903 


All rights reserved 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CGMGRESS. 



Two Cojiibs ReceivbC 

SEP 30 1903 

Cooyright Entry 


r>3 1 


cuss (X XXc. No 


6>93i7 


COPY 3. 


COPTEIGHT, 1908, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up, electrotyped, and published September, 1903. 


NorbJoolJ ^^reas 

J. S. Cuihing St Co. — Berwick St Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The 

Black Chanter 

• 




PAOB 

7 

II. 

The 

Chieftain’s Duties 

. 




27 

III. 

The 

King’s Touch . 





49 

IV. 

The 

Dirk of Ewan . 





73 

V. 

The 

Craven’s Craig 





95 

VI. 

The 

Man of the Paths 





115 

YII. 

The 

Chief’s Portrait 





143 

VIII. 

Fairy Ferlie 





167 

IX. 

The 

‘‘Wise Woman” 


• 



195 

X. 

The Bard . 


• 



213 


6 


I 


THE BLACK CHANTER 



I 


THE BLACK CHANTER 
I 

A PEOtTD man is a piper; wanting his 
pipes, you can tell him by his swing any 
day. With his oxter full of wind and his 
cheeks at the stretch, his kilt goes saucily 
from side to side like a widow’s tails at her 
second wedding. Your warman cocks his 
bonnet over his eye and sports a high 
feather; but the piper, with his ribbons 
and cairngorms, and the fierce, twisted 
hair on his lip, outbrags him. And right 
it is it should be so, for the man of the 
pipes is worth seven men of claymore and 
targe. Poor would be their work were it 
not for his breath, that puts iron into their 
hearts and strength in their arms. The 


9 


10 


THE BLACK CHANTEE 


steel hedge and the leaden shower are sore 
things to face without the skirl of the 
pibroch in the ear, and the thought, far ben, 
of the heroes who have won fame to the 
same tune on bygone fields — as our broken 
clan kens to its bitter cost this day. O 
Glenkilvie ! Dear green place ! Once so 
thrang and loud with hardy men and lint- 
headed bairns, now the wild grey whaup 
and the red fox alone inhabit you ! 

It was in the gloaming Glenkilvie’s piper 
was holding for the Chief’s house. 

“ Here comes Lachlan with all his feathers 
on. It’s surely time the old fellow was 
giving himself a lower head.” Bawby was 
fresh-cheeked and light-footed, and had 
little fancy for greybeards. 

“ Age will lay its hand on you, too, some 
day, my dear,” answered her mother. 
“ Keep the kind word on your tongue. But 
I see little the matter with Lachlan. What 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


11 


a leg is on him ! How he foots the grass, 
as if he were the Chief and not his piper ! 
Where is the youth like him ? Men were 
men once ! ” 

Bawhy made no reply, but, in her mind, 
she wondered how her mother could think 
of matching the worn coxcomb, in his 
unseemly brightness, with stalwart young 
Donald or Colin. 

“Where will you be stepping with your 
pipes ? ” inquired the mother at Lachlan, 
swaggering by. 

“Up to the Chief’s. He’s back from the 
South, at last. I have but a pinch of time 
to spare.” Lachlan, with the pipes over his 
shoulder, was ever an important man, with 
weight of business. 

“ Hoot-toot, Lachlan ! You can surely 
cross a word with a neighbour. You’ll be 
to play to the Chief and his friend, I sup- 
pose — he has a friend with him, they say ? ” 


12 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


« Maybe aye, and maybe no. I maun be 
moving.” 

« I thought you would have sent the 
laddie on this ploy. It’s hardly fit for a 
man who has come through what you’ve 
come through to spend his wind on the 
after-dinner pleasurin’ of a ne’er-do-weel. 
You’re ower good for the business, Lachlan. 
You should stick to the war-blast and the 
big Black Chanter.” 

“Your tongue’s ower souple, Helen, 
woman ; the Chief’s the Chief. As for the 
laddie, he has only been at the work the 
matter of three years — no piper is a piper 
under seven. He’s on the march to the 
Kirkton — ten mile there and back — oxter- 
ing ‘ Glenkilvie Limmers ’ all the way and 
that without a halt. A clever youth, but 
not born to it. God kens if he’ll have the 
genius to finger the Black Chanter when 
I’m away.” 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


13 


“ Pity you have no son, Lachlan. But 
Janet — ” 

“ Say no blame of Janet,” interrupted the 
piper. « But it’s pity, all the same. Seven 
of us, fathers and eldest sons, have given 
victory to Glenkilvie with the Black 
Chanter. I had thought the laddie, my 
young sister’s son,’'would have carried it on. 
But it fears me he wants the genius. Good 
enough for fairs and bridals, oh, yes ; but 
the Black Chanter’s beyond him. Well, 
well, I’m able for a score of years yet : my 
finger is true as ever it was. Something 
may happen before the end. Good e’en to 
you, kimmers.” 

And, with his jaunty air and his high 
conceit of himself, Lachlan passed on. 

“Did you hear,” was Bawby’s word to 
her mother, “ that the Chief had brought a 
bonny new piper with him ? I had a glint 
of him — a handsome fellow.” 


14 


THE BLACK CHANTEK 


“For our Lachlan to put art into, I’ll 
take my word,” answered Helen. “Glen- 
kilvie for piping ! ” 

When the old piper set foot inside the 
Chief’s room, the young Chief and his friend 
were swapping merry stories over their wine. 

“ Ah, Lachlan, friend ! ” said the Chief, 
“ not much change in you ; only a trifle 
stiffer and greyer. Let us have one of your 
old lilts. I have told Mr. Macdonald of 
your great skill, and he would prove for 
himself what you can do.” 

“ Where got you your learning ? ” asked 
Macdonald, the Chief’s friend. “ In Skye, 
from the Macrimmons, perhaps ? ” 

Lachlan made a sour face, and replied, 
with a breath of scorn in his voice, “ Glen- 
kilvie piping was kent from sea to sea or 
ever Skye piping was heard of. I learnt 
from my father ; he learnt from his ; and 
he, again — ” 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


15 


Macdonald struck in with a hearty laugh : 
“ And so on back to Noah’s flood ! And yet 
never heard I of your wondrous Glenkilvie 
piping. I am eager for the taste of it. 
Play up, man ! ” 

“ Aye, aye ! for Glenkilvie’s honour, and 
to quiet this jester,” added the Chief, echo- 
ing the laugh and busy with the claret. 

The talk had put Lachlan little in the 
mood for good piping. It is ill for an 
angry man to blow life into a merry tune, 
and a battle-peal suits not with the dinner- 
table. The spring “ Brogues upon the 
Green,” though the notes were free and 
loud enough, came not from the piper’s 
heart, and never touched the heart of either 
the Chief or Macdonald. To say truth, they 
were minding the bottle more than the 
pibroch. 

“ Neat enough. Chief ; but I might have 
heard as good without coming a hundred 


16 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


miles to Glenkilvie,” was Macdonald’s re- 
mark. “ Has your piper nothing better to 
give us?” 

« You used to have a Baloo wondrous 
sweet and drowsy,” said the Chief to 
Lachlan ; “it would suit with my exceed- 
ing sleepiness. Let us have it, old fellow.” 

It was in Lachlan’s mind to swing out 
of the room. But Macdonald’s red, jeering 
face was before him, and stung him to his 
task. Once more shouldering his pipes, he 
put breath into the air that brought dreams 
to so many of the Glen bairns, but that will 
bring them never again. It had a mournful 
weft in it, and moved slow, so that supple- 
ness of finger was not needed. Even Mac- 
donald felt the grace of it. 

“ A good Baloo — a good Baloo ! ” he 
said. “ But you’re a wee stiff in the wind, 
man, and your fingers are not what they 
might be. Had you studied at Skye, with 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


17 


the Macrimmons, for a year or two, you 
would have been a piper to hear.” 

“ Come, Macdonald ! ” interposed the 
Chief ; « you bear too hardly on Lachlan. 
He is a good fellow, and has known his day 
— have you not, Lachlan ? But an easy 
time will be yours now, old fellow. I’ve 
got a clever youth to save your elbow. He 
has been to Skye, and will teach you some 
of the Macrimmon fingering Mr. Macdonald 
speaks of. We’ll have him in now, and 
you can test him.” The Chief jingled a 
knife on the side of his glass. 

Lachlan did not take it in at once ; it 
was so unlooked for, so astounding ! Then 
he grasped it. “ Teach me ! ” he repeated 
in angry wonder ; “ teach me, Glenkilvie’s 
piper, and player of the Black Chanter 
before he was born ! It is not in him nor 
in man living ! You’ll beg hard, Chief, ere 
I pipe to you or to your funny friend again. 


18 THE BLACK CHANTER 

Kilvie piping has been Glenkilvie’s back- 
bone since Ossian’s day. He is a poor 
Kilvie man — Chief or no Chief — who 
hearkens a Skye fumbler when his own 
clan’s piper is to the fore. For me, I listen 
to no man’s note but my own.” 

With that, Lachlan, in a snorting storm, 
flung himself from the room. 


II 


Fok all his swelling words, Lachlan had 
to lend his ear to the new hand. Every 
morning for a good hour the Skye lad was 
strutting the grass before the Chief’s door, 
putting life into the day with his pibrocli. 
And a fair-faced, swank fellow he was, but 
wanting the width and wind of the old race 
of Glen pipers. 

“ He has the swing of it,” was Lachlan’s 
say, “ if the pith was in him. Pretty ! 
pretty ! for ladies to shake their feet to, 
but hardly for a man to drink courage 
from.” 

“Yes,” one might answer him — a lass, 
likely ; “ but the laddie’s young and grow- 
ing.” 

Quick Lachlan’s retort would leap, “ Let 


19 


22 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


a steadfast and true fighter. Every Glen- 
kilvie man had that much comfort when the 
Black Chanter was with him. 

The hour came when the battle-tune was 
wanted. Never had occasion more called 
for it. A weary, sleepless night, a cold 
grey morning, wet arrows of rain smiting 
knee and face, and a handful of meal — 
these things are poor fare to raise a daunt- 
less spirit on. Yet a dauntless spirit had 
not been wanting had the old peal brought 
the old thoughts of dead heroes. But to 
rush on the crowded steel through the 
death-storm without it ! 

“Up with it, in God’s name, Lachlan ! ” 
cried the Chief. “ Up with it, good lad ! 
We need the Black Chanter’s braggart voice. 
Then hey for Glenkilvie and the Cause ! ” 

Lachlan’s dour brow never relaxed. The 
big pipes were under his arm, but no move 
made he to get them in order. His eye 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


23 


looked downwards, and his foot beat the 
heather. 

The Chief took up the tale again : 
“ Y ou’ve never failed us yet, old fellow ; you 
won’t fail us to-day — and such a day ? 
Come, scream it out, ‘ Steel Blades of Glen- 
kilvie ’ ! ” 

For a moment it seemed as if the piper 
would yield. There were stirrings in him. 
His face changed, and he laid a hand on a 
pipe. But again the dour look took him. 
“ It seems,” said he, bitterly, “ my fingering 
is not what it should be. Perhaps the lad 
from Skye will try what the Macrimmon 
touch can do.” 

Time for further parley there was none. 
Some of the clans were at the enemy’s 
throats already. With a curse the Chief 
bade the Skye man take the Black Chanter 
from Lachlan, and gave the order to advance 
on the foe. 


22 


THE BLACK CHANTEK 


a steadfast and true fighter. Every Glen- 
kilvie man had that much comfort when the 
Black Chanter was with him. 

The hour came when the battle-tune was 
wanted. Never had occasion more called 
for it. A weary, sleepless night, a cold 
grey morning, wet arrows of rain smiting 
knee and face, and a handful of meal — 
these things are poor fare to raise a daunt- 
less spirit on. Yet a dauntless spirit had 
not been wanting had the old peal brought 
the old thoughts of dead heroes. But to 
rush on the crowded steel through the 
death-storm without it ! 

“Up with it, in God’s name, Lachlan ! ” 
cried the Chief. “ Up with it, good lad ! 
We need the Black Chanter’s braggart voice. 
Then hey for Glenkilvie and the Cause ! ” 

Lachlan’s dour brow never relaxed. The 
big pipes were under his arm, but no move 
made he to get them in order. His eye 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


23 


looked downwards, and his foot beat the 
heather. 

The Chief took up the tale again : 
“ You’ve never failed us yet, old fellow ; you 
won’t fail us to-day — and such a day ? 
Come, scream it out, ‘ Steel Blades of Glen- 
kilvie ’ ! ” 

For a moment it seemed as if the piper 
would yield. There were stirrings in him. 
His face changed, and he laid a hand on a 
pipe. But again the dour look took him. 
“ It seems,” said he, bitterly, “ my fingering 
is not what it should be. Perhaps the lad 
from Skye will try what the Macrimmon 
touch can do.” 

Time for further parley there was none. 
Some of the clans were at the enemy’s 
throats already. With a curse the Chief 
bade the Skye man take the Black Chanter 
from Lachlan, and gave the order to advance 
on the foe. 


24 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


What an advance ! Not one single, steady, 
swinging step, but a hundred different steps 
— every man as it suited him. And the 
blame of it, whose was it ? Was it the 
Skye man’s, who had laid finger on the Black 
Chanter never before, and had small know- 
ledge of Glenkilvie’s war-peal ? Was it 
prideful Lachlan’s, who had stayed his hand 
when it was so sorely needed ? Or was it 
the Chief’s, with his little respect for old 
friends and his great regard for new ones 
and the claret cup ? Settle it as you 
choose. The end, anyway, was evil. Wet, 
hungry, and without their accustomed note, 
or with but poor broken scraps of it, the 
Glenkilvie lads scattered before the hot 
bullets of the redcoats that met them half 
across the muir. 

Lachlan was early hit in the leg. Unable 
to go forward, he leant against a big boulder 
and watched the evil fate of his clan. His 


THE BLACK CHANTER 


25 


bonnet was oflf, and the wind and rain were 
among his grey hairs. In his eyes was 
gloom, but never a tear. 

Back came the Chief rushing, sword in 
hand, wild with anguish. “ Shame, shame 
on you, Lachlan ! ” he cried. « On you rests 
the dirdum of this ! But it is not too late. 
You can save us yet. The old measure ; 
speak it, man, speak it ! ” 

The Skye lad was passing hastily home- 
wards with white, dazed face, the big pipes 
trailing in the trampled mud. “ Hey, you,” 
called the Chief ; “ damn you ! Hand over 
these pipes. You have not the wind to 
scatter the dust from a flower-leaf. To 
hell with you and Macrimmon I ” 

With never a word, Lachlan took back 
the Black Chanter and set the wind pipe to 
his lips. His cheeks were wet as his gaze 
travelled over the damp, dark muir, and 
marked the straggling, returning men of 


26 


THE BLACK CHANTEE 


his broken, dishonoured clan, — some run- 
ning, sword and pistol cast behind them ; 
others crawling along slowly and with torn 
limbs. It was a sorry sight, and worth a 
dim eye. 

“ Play, man ! ” shouted the Chief ; “ or 
by the heavens above us, it’s in my heart 
to let you have my dirk ! ” 

Without so much as looking an answer, 
Lachlan, with his strong lungs, filled the 
bag with wind. Then rose upon the air, 
not the brisk, quickening strain, with the 
war-heart in it, of “Steel Blades of Glen- 
kilvie,” but the dragging wail of the 
“ Death-tune ” — the tune to which the 
warriors and the wise men are buried. 

And to that tune were buried, never more 
to rise again, the glory and the strength 
and the honour of Gienkilvie and its clan. 



THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 








II 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 

I 

Old Braan filled up liis fourth bicker, 
and, with a steady hand, carried it to his 
lips. Or ever the cup was empty he fiung 
it from him with a grunt of disgust. 
“What has taken me,” he growled, “that 
I lose my relish for the sharp stuff ? The 
day has been when six bickers running 
over were less than my measure. It is a 
sure sign age is upon me I I would not 
believe when my white beard declared it, 
nor would I credit my stiff shoulder. But, 
faith ! when I sicken at my old crony, the 
liquor, ’tis a sure sign of age.” For a while 
he sat silent, busy with gloomy thoughts 
of what lay before his clan when he should 
29 


30 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


be gone. “Poor Donald, poor laddie,” he 
muttered, “it was a sad mischance that 
carried you off. Had you been here to suc- 
ceed me, my mind had been easy. And 
Allan, Donald’s son, where he is none but 
Heaven knows. It was folly to send him 
over the seas ; the lear that served his 
fathers was surely sufficient for him. Lear- 
full or lear-less, I would he were back to 
take the load off this tired old back. 
Here’s his health and quick return ! ” And 
Braan took another pull at the liquor that 
no longer pleased him. 

Ere he had time to dry his beard the 
door was thrown open, and a stranger 
entered — a tall, shapely youth, with a 
straight nose, and eyes soft and large and 
dark. His lip and chin were shaven, and 
he carried, not a sword, but a wooden staff. 
“ Peace be with you,” liwas the salutation 
he gave the old Chief on crossing the thresh- 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 31 

old. “ A thousand welcomes to you,” was 
Braan’s reply, as he filled a cup for his 
visitor, whose face was weary, and whose 
dark cloak showed signs of travel. 

As the stranger drank Braan eyed him 
curiously, and an uncertain brightness 
dawned on his cheek. At length he said 
doubtfully, “Young sir, my eyes are not 
what once they were, but I can yet trust 
them a little. Surely, in a bygone hour, 
I have seen a countenance like yours.” 

He of the shaven face smiled. “ They 
say I have my father’s brow and my 
mother’s eyes,” he responded. “My name 
is Allan.” 

The Chieftain sprang to his feet. “ Here 
is luck,” he cried in exultation, “ Allan ! 
Allan ! grandson Allan ! Now can I end 
my time quietly ! Allan, I am weary wait- 
ing and looking for you. You are sorely 
wanted. The clan has no hope but your- 


32 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


self. Since you crossed the seas your 
father — as you must know — has been 
taken. He slipped a foot at the Red Brig 
tulzie, and the heel of a Scrive limmer 
trod out his hams. Your first work, Allan, 
must be to avenge that black deed. 
Brothers and cousins you have none ; you 
are the tail of the race. Though there is 
yet a spark of life in me, I am in truth an 
old fellow — think of it, I sickened at the 
liquor to-night! — and it comforts me to 
know my successor is ready.” 

Allan shuddered as he heard of his 
father’s fate and of the vengeance he was 
required to take. “ I fear, grandfather,” 
he said, “I am unworthy to tread in the 
footprints of so great a Chief as yourself. 
I have not the fortitude — ” 

“Well said, well said, Allan,” inter- 
rupted old Braan ; “ a little modesty be- 
comes a young man. But doubt not 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


33 


yourself. When the pibroch sounds your 
blood will rise. There never yet was one 
of the race short of courage and smeddum 
when these were needed. Fill up your 
bicker, man, and try a whang of the 
cheese ; you have travelled far.” 

With difficulty Allan was able to excuse 
himself from eating or drinking more. 

“ Where’s your stomach, man ? ” ex- 
claimed Braan, with some scorn. “ One 
poor bicker and a bite oatcake ! It was 
different in my young days. Think of 
what lies before you to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! What of to-morrow ? ” 
There was apprehension in the youth’s voice. 

“To-morrow the Tryst is held on the 
green. You will meet with your clans- 
men. They will expect you to take a 
turn at the caber or the hammer with them. 
It is a kindness they look for from their 
Chiefs.” 


34 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


“ Father of my father, you do not kno’wT 
me. I have no aptitude for sport. My 
nature is sluggish and heavy. There is 
neither skill nor strength — ” 

Braan interposed again. Anger shone 
in his eye, and in his voice was sternness, 
as he said : “ It may be that in foreign lands 
you have not had opportunity to accustom 
yourself to Highland sports — so much 
the worse. But allowance will be made, 
never fear. And if, as you say, you have 
small skill, you have strength and to spare. 
Yours is an arm no man need blush to 
wear. I like modesty in a youth, but you 
overdo it, Allan. You are as pretty a man 
as any ; to-morrow you must show it. 
Friendly eyes will look upon you. Now” 
— and Braan’s voice softened, and he re- 
garded his grandson with kindliness — 
“one more bicker and to bed.” 

As they parted for the night Braan’s final 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


35 


words (and there was a bite in them) were : 
“ Have you a desire to pass for a smooth, 
cream-faced lassie, Allan ? A Chief should 
be a man among men ! Pitch your razor in 
the loch, lad, and let your beard sprout ! ” 


II 


Next day was a day of disappointment 
for the old Chief. And he rose from his 
bed so contented with himself and all the 
world too ! The fault was not in the day, 
which was sunny with a cool wind ; nor 
was it in the gathering at the Tryst, for 
hawkers and pipers, and men mighty with 
their hands, were rife there. Brisk tunes 
were blown, lint was bought and sold, and 
great feats were done ; but Braan was dis- 
satisfied, and that although he himself had 
shone at the caber tossing. And Allan — 
his hope ! his dead son’s son ! — was the 
cause. 

« Kinsmen,” Braan had said to the clans- 
men, “ Allan is with us again — Allan, 
Donald’s son. A welcome to him ! ” 


36 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


37 


From every throat had come the greeting, 
deep and strong like the noise of the Dun- 
water at Yule. 

“ He has long been over seas,” Braan had 
continued, “ and has little skill in our 
games. But he loves you from the heart, 
and in token of friendship would fain take 
a hand in your sports.” 

Loud had been the cries of joy at this. 
The caber and the heavy hammer had been 
made ready, a space had been cleared, and 
the maidens’ eyes had waited thirstily for 
the young Chieftain. 

But the young Chieftain had hung back. 
He had no talent that way, he declared to 
his grandsire. Sports he liked to see, but 
he was unfit to join in them. Braan must 
ask the clanfolk to hold him excused. 

In the midst of Allan’s hesitations and 
excuses Braan had lost patience. “ Tush, 
man ! ” he had cried angrily, « have done 
with your clavers. If you won’t budge. 


38 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


you can sit.” Then the old fellow, his 
blood seething in his veins, had himself 
leaped among the clansmen, and, setting the 
big beam on his shoulder, had sent it birl- 
ing with the best of them. But, in spite of 
the applause thus won, Allan’s conduct had 
hurt him sore. From the rising to the 
setting of next day’s sun he said no word, 
good or bad, to the offender. 

Other thoughts came to him after. “ The 
lad is newly home,” he said in his heart. 
“ He is what none of his race ever was be- 
fore — blate. A little time and he will 
come to himself and show the mettle that 
is in him. The war-blast ! that is the thing 
to stir him for sure. Maybe, when all is 
considered, Allan was not far wrong — 
sport is an occupation for empty lads ; 
strife is a man’s business. Ay, we’ll try 
him with the clash of steel and the skirl of 
the battle pibroch.” 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


39 


So it came about that Allan, in one of 
his quiet strolls, noticed the clansmen at 
the doorstep of their sheilings. Some were 
putting a keener edge on broadsword or 
skene-dhu ; others were mending targe or 
leathern brogue. 

“ What ploy is afoot ? ” asked Allan at a 
big fellow. 

The man looked up from the bright steel, 
a glad look in his eyes. “ Sure you must 
know well,” he replied ; “ your father’s 
death is unavenged. What have we been 
waiting for so long but yourself to lead us 
against the Scrive limmers ? Never fear 
but we’ll make them pay the high price for 
their ill deed.” 

Home w'ent the young Chief, trouble in 
his mind. Arrived there, he found some- 
thing awaiting him that gave him further 
concern. On his bed was displayed a fine 
fit-out of plaid, kilt, bonnet, and war-gear. 


40 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


Allan regarded the weapons and gaily 
striped tartan with dismay. From its 
scabbard he drew the silver-hilted claymore. 
“My father’s sword,” he exclaimed, as he 
looked on the fray-notched blade. “And I 
can never wield it ! ” 

If Braan had been an angry man when 
Allan held back from the sports, he was a 
fiend in flesh when his grandson refused to 
lead the raid against Scrive. In vain the 
ranked clansmen appeared in all their 
bravery, tartans streaming in the wind, 
blades shining in the morning sun ; in vain 
the pipers swelled their cheeks in “Dour 
Dunts ” and “ Corbies gather ” ! Allan’s 
shaven face showed not a gleam of generous 
colour. Not a foot would he budge from 
the fireside for all the pipers’ puffing or 
Braan’s jeers. 

“ Donald’s son,” hissed the old Chief, 
“ and a calf’s heart ! Faith, I’m glad your 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


41 


father’s away. A sore trial you would 
have been to him, with your craven tricks. 
Where you got your cold whey blood I 
know not. Donald’s, like mine own, was 
ever warm enough when fighting was to 
the fore. Well, well, the old horse must 
e’en yoke to the work himself again, I sup- 
pose, seeing the young one has grown too 
dainty for aught but listless dreams and 
dowie dirge tunes.” 

And into his kilt and plaid, tattered and 
stained in many a red field, grey-haired 
Braan got ; across his broad back that 
began to stoop a little he slung his shield ; 
and with his sword bare and a countenance 
angry as a stormy sunset, he headed his 
war-men towards the ford. 

The tulzie with the Scrive limmers 
(though it happened neither to-day nor yes- 
terday) and Braan’s skill and prowess in it 
are yet green in all clansmen’s minds. Once 


42 


THE CHIEFTAIN^S DUTIES 


for all Scrive was emptied of its devil’s 
brood that had pestered the countryside for 
long generations. The slaying of Donald 
was avenged to the full. And who had 
done it all but Braan, the old, the grey one ? 
The minstrels wove songs about him, and 
in hillside sheilings you may yet hear his 
name mentioned in rhyme. All this put 
the lusty veteran in good humour with him- 
self ; and his hopes for the clan which, on 
account of his own supposed infirmities and 
his grandson’s failures had been sinking, 
began to revive. There’s smeddum in me 
yet ! ” he exultantly declared to himself. 
“ As for Allan, one more chance I’ll give 
the feckless creature ; and if he refuses 
to take it — ” Braan made a sudden pause, 
and then added, “ in that case, we’ll see, 
we’ll see. I hardly thought my foot was 
so fleet or my arm so strong.”. 

He broached this “ last chance ” to Allan. 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


43 


“ You’ve never asked after bonnie Mistress 
Alison Stewart.” 

“ Why should I ? ” 

“ I thought there was something between 
you before you went away.” 

“ A mere boy and girl affair.” 

“Your father meant the match, and gave 
his word to her father about it. It scarcely 
goes with a son’s honour to draw back.” 

“ I cannot — I have no wish to marry. 
My word was never pledged.” 

“Your father’s word, sir, is your word. 
The girl is ready, so her father tells me. It 
seems to me you are as icy in love as in 
war. Have you considered that you are 
the last of the race ? ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Well ! Is an ancient race like ours to 
die out like a spent candle because you 
have ‘ no wish to marry ’ ? You should con- 
sider, not your wish, but your duty.” 


44 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


At this Allan rose to his feet. His face 
was white but firm, and he spoke with 
decision. “It is because I consider my 
duty,” he said, “ that I refuse the alliance. 
I am already wed.” 

“ Already wed ! ” Braan was amazed. 

“ Ay, to my spouse the church ; I am a 
priest. In turning my steps to my native 
glen I had thought to gather in my clans- 
men to the one fold where is peace. Peace 
is the last thing you and they desire. 
Since I came home the talk has been of 
nothing but swords, and strife, and ven- 
geance. It is a guilty, blood-stained race ; 
I shudder to belong to it. Rather than aid 
in its continuance, I would leap into the 
loch that lies beneath us.” 

Loud and long laughed old Braan when 
Allan had made an end. “ Ho, ho, ho,” 
came from the depths of his chest, “ the 
Chief of the Red Clan, our Chief, a priest ! 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


45 


’Tis not in mortal to keep gravity. This 
explains the shaven cheeks. Ay, and the 
nasal times. The chief a singer of psalms ! 
— here is humour ! ho, ho, ho.” 

Allan lost temper at his grandsire’s mer- 
riment, and small wonder at it. Sharply 
he said, « As it seems I can be of little ser- 
vice here, perhaps I had better return to 
the Abbey of Dryburgh whence I come. It 
is pity I have raised hopes I cannot realise.” 

Somewhat sobered, Braan replied, “ I 
won’t conter you, grandson mine. As 
things are, doubtless the best you can do 
is to show us the broad of your back. A 
priest, as you yourself perceive, is hardly 
the Chief for us. Yet, ere you go, I may 
have a trifling piece of business for you — 
Nay, never start and frown, man ; ’tis no 
raiding or reiving this. Bide till to- 
morrow, then I will speak further of it.” 

Later, mounting his horse, the old fellow, 


46 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


who wore his brightest smile and newest 
plaid, added, “ Have you any message for 
Mistress Alison ? I may chance to see her 
to-night.” 

With clouded brow the priest turned 
silently away. 

❖ ❖ ❖ H: ❖ ❖ 

“ Well, what is the ‘ piece of business ’ 
you want done ? ” coldly questioned Allan, 
the priest, as Braan entered his room next 
day. 

Braan was twenty years younger. Fire 
was in his eye and a spring in his step. 
“ It is a trifle, and in the way of your 
trade,” said he. “ You’ll allow, Allan, I 
have not been slack in filling your place 
when you were backward. The caber 
tossing at the Tryst and the collieshangie 
with the Scrive folk will be in your mind 
yet — But these were small matters. Now 
I purpose taking up a heavier burden, — a 


THE CHIEFTAIN’S DUTIES 


47 


burden that rightly should be your own. 
At my near four-score I had hoped I was 
done with marriage — a weary business at 
the best; but the clan cries for Chieftains 
so — In short, I want you, holy man, to 
bind me with holy fetters to Mistress 
Alison Stewart, who, in default of a 
younger and better, has accepted old Braan 
for her gudeman.” 





















« 


III 

THE KING’S TOUCH 


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A 




I 




* • i * ^ 



i 


I 


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• . > • 
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4 


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Ill 


THE KING’S TOUCH 

I 

Clean blood and a comely face are to a 
maiden what a stout heart and a strong 
arm are to a man. Without them she 
lacks her war-gear, and can hardly win in 
the tussle of life. Her thoughts may be 
pure and true, her words kindly and wise 
— they will scarcely stand in the room of 
the qualities she possesses not. Give no 
blame then to her, the stricken one ! who 
in her desire to be even with the meanest 
lass of the byre, appealed for aid where aid 
(as we think) was little likely to be found. 
It was, fail not to mind, another and a 
ruder day than this ; and she was no name- 
less woman, but the daughter of the Chief 
61 


52 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


himself ; and therefore to be set in high 
places, and her flaws observed. 

Truly, Heaven’s hand was heavy on Bar- 
bara. The words of the wise woman of 
her clan and the simples of her native hills 
had failed to remove the hideous stain 
from her cheek ; and southwards among 
the nuns of Cambuskenneth by the Forth, 
she had sought, but had not gathered, 
relief. Now, as a last resource, she stood, 
companioned by Sister Margaret, at the 
gate of the castle of Stirling. For was not 
the King himself, good King Sheumais, 
shortly to issue from it on his way to the 
hunt ? 

“ If his Majesty, blessings on him ! but 
deign to touch you, my poor child,” said 
the religious, “you are cured.” 

Barbara made no answer, but a sigh told 
that her expectations were lower than the 
good sister’s. Her eye wandered away 


THE KING’S TOUGH 


53 


from the high, wind-swept platform on 
which she stood to the far blue northern 
hills where her home lay. Young as she 
was, she wished the almost hopeless quest 
for health were over, and she at rest among 
them, if unhealed at least unseen. 

The merry noise of the hunting horn 
interrupted her gloomy thoughts. An 
instant later the castle gate was thrown 
open ; and, amid the yelping of the deer- 
hounds and the loyal shouts of the watch- 
ing crowd, an assemblage of gaily-clad 
courtiers, archers, and huntsmen came 
forth. In the midst of them, handsome 
and jolly, was the King. A jest was on 
his lips, a smile in. his eye. He was touch- 
ing his horse’s flank with the spur when he 
caught sight of Sister Margaret. She had 
thrown herself on her knees in the middle 
of the road, and with clasped hands made 
her silent appeal. Just in time to save her 


54 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


from the horse’s hoof, the King drew tight 
the rein. Displeasure was in his face. 

“Well, well, well, what is it now, good 
lady ? ” he said impatiently. “ I had 
thought to get out of the hands of the kirk 
for the space of one fine half day. But I 
might have kenned better. Sleeping or 
waking, priest or presbyter is never far 
from my elbow. Between them they’re 
brewing a sorry browst for auld Scotland, 
or I am the more mistaken ! Say your 
say quickly, holy damsel, and let us and 
the dogs to our sport.” 

The sister raised her face to the King’s. 
No answer in words made she, but her 
glance turned to Barbara, who stood a little 
apart. The King’s eye fell upon the Chief’s 
daughter, and he understood it all. “ Poor 
thing, poor thing,” he reflected, compassion 
within him, “your own mother could not 
call you bonny. It’s a sore weird you have 


THE KING’S TOUCH ^5 

to dree. Would I could make it easier for 
you ! ” 

The nun fancied the King failed to 
comprehend. “ If your Majesty would 
but touch the damsel,” she pleaded 
earnestly, “ she would be cured of the 
evil.” 

“ Are you so sure of it ? ” said the King, 
with a melancholy smile ; “ I have my 
doubts. We are certain enough of the 
King’s Evil ; I wish, for royalty’s sake, we 
were as certain of the King’s Cure.” Then, 
speaking to Barbara, he continued, “ Come 
hither, lass. Nay, look not so shamefaced. 
There is knowledge in your eye, if favour 
is not on your cheek.” 

Obediently the Chief’s daughter ap- 
proached the King. Not without a certain 
niceness, his Majesty lightly touched her 
marred face with the tips of his royal 
fingers. 


56 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


« If my touch or my wishes can cure you, 
lass, as it is said they can, the plague will 
not be long upon you,” were his parting 
words. As if glad the duty was over he 
then shouted, “ Forward, merry men ! To 
the forest ! ” 

With clatter of hoofs and jangling 
of weapons, the throng passed quickly 
down the steep street leading to the 
plain. 

Joy was in the nun’s face as she looked 
at Barbara. Almost she expected to see 
the blight already gone, so great was her 
faith in the royal touch. Alas ! it still lin- 
gered. “ Let us approach the shrine of 
Our Lady, my sweet,” she said, “ and 
thank her for the kindness she has done 
you. There doubtless the evil will be 
taken away.” 

Barbara gave her hand to the simple 
woman, and suffered herself to be led from 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


57 


the place. As she went she covered her 
cheek with her kerchief, for she shrank 
from the gaze of the people. In her heart 
was bitter pain. She felt there was no 
hope for her. 


II 


A LITTLE later Barbara had returned to 
her home among the mountains. A sorry 
welcome was hers. At an ill time she set 
foot again in her native glen. Her father’s 
clan had met with the worst luck at the 
hands of the old enemy, the Black Glen 
folk ; and her only brother, the old Chief- 
tain’s pride, was slain. In a far field his 
body was lying with no earth above it to 
hide it from the carrion birds. 

Her father’s greeting was a harsh one. 
God forgive him ! he was sour with heavy 
loss. “ So you’re home again, Bawby,” he 
said. “Little good the sisters have done 
you. You bring back your beauty-mark 
with you, I see.” 


68 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


59 


The lass made no reply to the gibe. She 
knew her father had much to bear, and 
grief was hers that her ill-favour should add 
to his burden. Quietly she moved about 
the house getting platter and bicker ready. 
With a more lavish hand than she had been 
wont to use, she filled out the usquebaugh. 
The drink that was surely meant for 
sorrow’s own, brought the colour to the old 
man’s cheek, and gave him in sleep a short 
respite from his heavy thoughts. When he 
awoke, the heart pain seized him again. 

“Ay, ay,” he muttered dolefully, “it’s 
near the end of the song now. With the 
boldest gone, what can the poor remnant do 
against the strong fighters from the Black 
Glen ? My hand shakes ; my head swims. 
Never again can I lead the lads to battle. 
O Ronald, Ronald, hope of my heart ! why 
were you stricken, and I left, an edgeless, 
useless brand! My poor clan is broken 


60 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


and leaderless. A little while, and our 
name shall be lost for ever, and the foe shall 
call the dear home-place his own.” 

Barbara’s words gave no comfort to her 
sire. She found it the better way to keep 
out of his sight. When his looks fell upon 
her, he thought on what a son of her age 
might have done. “ Had she been but eye- 
sweet,” he muttered, “young Clunie might 
have fancied her; and to win her favour 
faced the Black Glen men.” For the Black 
Glen was never out of his mind now. He 
knew well the Chief of that Glen was not 
one to miss his chance. And when had 
he ever a better chance than now, with 
his enemy disabled, disheartened, and want- 
ing friends ? “ The sooner they are on 

us the better,” was aye the melancholy end 
of the old fellow’s reflections. “ A sharp 
pain and a short one ! It’s weary work 
waiting for ill to come ! ” And he would 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


61 


try to soften his pricking thoughts in a 
deeper draught of the usquebaugh. 

It turned out as he had never hoped it 
would. One day there arrived a messenger 
from the Black Glen bringing the greeting 
of Malcolm the Chief. 

Barbara’s father, pleasure in his face, 
came forth from the parley with him. 

“ Hope yet, lass ! ” he cried. “ Ay, more 
than hope — certainty ! Malcolm speaks us 
well. With an arm that could sweep us 
from the earth, he offers us peace and 
friendship. In kindness he holds out his 
hand and says, ‘ Let my men, the men of 
the Black Glen, and your men be as one.’ 
What think you of it, Bawby ? Why, he 
and I could stand together against all the 
Highlands ! ” 

“ Truly these are good tidings.” 

“ Are they not ! They mean a roof above 
them, and a never-failing bannock to those 


62 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


of our own name who are fatherless, and an 
end to the making of widows and orphans ; 
they mean that our memory may not utterly 
perish.” 

“ Gladness is at my heart to hear it.” 

“ So it should be ! Even though there is 
a small bit condition Malcolm lays strays 
upon. But his son is young, and they say 
handsome, so that can be no hindrance.” 

Barbara’s expression altered, her brows 
came together. “ His son — a condition — ” 
she repeated — “ what is the condition ? ” 

“ Only that you should take Ian, Mal- 
colm’s son, for your gudeman. When you 
think that your wedding will be the wed- 
ding of the two clans, and that our poor 
folk are thereby given life and honour in- 
stead of an inglorious grave, you can scarcely 
hold back.” 

But doubt and pain were in Barbara’s face. 

“Were I fully to say my mind,” con- 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


63 


tinued the Chief, who saw the girl’s uneasi- 
ness, and thought of her stained cheek, “ I 
believe I would be moved to say it was a 
better offer than you had reason to expect. 
Ay, and a better offer than our thin failing 
clan of greybeards and laddies ever blessed 
itself with the dream of.” 

“I never expected as much,” was Bar- 
bara’s answer. 

“ Then why wear such a dour look over 
the business ? ” retorted the Chief. 

“ Surely I may have a space to consider 
such a weighty matter.” 

“ Why should you need it ? ” growled the 
father. “ I tell you Malcolm’s son is a 
bridegroom for a princess. And you save 
your clan. What more would you have ? ” 
“ One word, father. Does Malcolm — 
does Ian — know of — of my — ” 

The Chief understood, and felt a touch 
of pity. “ Poor lass,” he said, “ I hardly 


64 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


think it. But what matters it ? Malcolm 
has given his word ; and his word he’ll 
stick to. After all, the bargain is a good 
enough one for him and his son. Your 
word is soft and your heart kind if your 
face is not what a lover might wish.” 

« And do you think it right and honour- 
able,” asked Barbara, indignantly, “to get 
the better of young Ian, and tie him for life 
to one whom he cannot regard without — 
without loathing ? ” 

“ Hoot, toot,” answered the Chief, moved 
by the tears on his daughter’s cheek ; “ it’s 
not so bad as all that. You may not be the 
pink of beauty, Bawby ; but neither are you 
without your good points. He might go 
farther and fare worse. As for its being 
right, well it cannot be wrong if it saves 
the clan. It’s the only way, lass. If your 
brother had been here it had been another 
tale.” 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


65 


He ended with, “ Sleep on it, lass. In the 
morning give me your answer. I hope you 
will not fail us.” 

On the brink of night Barbara was by 
the banks of the Dunwater, that she might 
speak with her own heart. The deep quiet 
river, and the cool air from the Big Hill 
calmed her somewhat. The grazing stirks, 
the skimming swallows, the floating white 
birds, all seemed peaceful and happy. The 
finger of rest was everywhere but on her 
own swift pulse. 

« It is terrible,” was her inward cry, “ to 
have to make a choice. To accept for a 
husband one who cannot but detest me — 
oh, the shame of it ! Yet, if I refuse, 
the helpless and weak must suffer; and 
blood, more blood, will dye this pure 
river.” 

A voice broke in on her thoughts. It 
was that of an old crone, bent almost double 


66 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


by years and the rheums. She leant upon 
a staff of hazelwood. “ I’ve come, Bar- 
bara,” she said in a husky, broken voice, 
“ to ask you in Mary’s name to say yes to 
young Ian, Malcolm’s son. If your answer 
is no, then it’s sorrow to this glen ! Not 
that it matters to me — my day is nearly 
by. With my man, God rest him ! gone, 
and my two sons lost in this last red ploy, 
what have I to live for ? But there are 
others ; and if man or laddie is to be left of 
the clan, Malcolm must have his iron will. 
Let your word be yes, and put an end to 
this weary waste of life. Ian, they say, is a 
fair youth, and his blood is the purest in 
the Highlands. Why should you turn from 
him ? ” 

“ What am I that I should wed with one 
pure-blooded and fair ? ” was Barbara’s wild 
retort. “ Oh, you cannot tell what -I must 
suffer, how dishonoured I must feel, to do 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


67 


this thing. The sacrifice is too hard, too 
great.” 

“ You are one of the Chief’s line,” replied 
the old woman, with harshness. “ The day 
has been when such an one counted it hon- 
our to sacrifice all, even life, for the clan. 
But these days are, it would seem, gone. 
Well, well, what must be must be. But 
it’s pity an ancient clan should be lost 
for the whim of a vain lass.” 

Angrily muttering to herself, the crone 
tottered away. 

When she was gone Barbara gazed long 
and moodily into a dark, silent pool of the 
Dunwater, whose depths the eye could not 
penetrate. Decision at last came to her. 
Her duty to her clan, to Ian, to herself, 
formed itself clearly in her mind. With a 
lighter step and a calmer heart than she 
had brought to the water’s edge, she fol- 
lowed the old woman homeward. 


68 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


But, though her resolution was fixed, her 
first interview with Ian, Malcolm’s son, was 
none the less a bitter morsel. She could 
have thrown herself in shame on the ground 
and hidden her face when he, the handsome 
one, bright in his tartans and silver buckles, 
stood before her. Here was a sweetheart 
to dream of ! and pledged to one unworthy 
to mate with a byre man ! 

He took his disappointment bravely, for 
he was as good a gentleman as ever trod 
heather. Only when the thing first dawned 
on him did he show by his look the sore 
feeling that was in him. He had never 
mentioned Barbara’s blemish had she not 
spoken of it herself. 

“ I cannot hold you to your word,” she 
said. « It was given in ignorance. I am 
no creature for a chieftain’s wife.” 

“ You have a good heart,” he answered ; 
“it is much. But I cannot take back my 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


69 


word. Not for your sake only do I abide 
by it, but for peace’s sake. I have been 
over seas, and have learnt and unlearnt 
something. Strife I love not as my father 
loves it. Much would I do to avoid more 
spilling of innocent blood. There is no 
way but this.” 

In his voice Barbara read the greatness of 
his longing for another and a pleasanter road. 
What maiden could know unmoved that 
such thoughts were in a suitor’s mind ? But 
she was prepared for hard things, and 
flinched not. 

“ You do not forget,” she said, « that you 
are binding yourself to have me with you 
hour by hour, day by day, through all our 
years, by the fireside and abroad, at kirk 
and at fair ? Think ! you might choose a 
bonnier picture.” 

The reply came after a pause. “ I have 
chosen for the sake of peace — for the sake 


70 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


of my father’s word and mine I will endure 
it all. There are higher things than 
beauty.” 

The girl shuddered as if a cold wind had 
touched her. “ ‘ Endure ’ — it is a rough 
word, Ian, but you mean well. Blessings 
on God who has made my task so light, 
and has placed a good man in my way ! 
With His help, I will not abuse His nor 
your loving-kindness.” 

Great was the rejoicing in the clan when 
word of the happy agreement became 
known. Instead of the extinction that 
lately had seemed inevitable, here was 
prosperity and a new career opening out. 
It was the brightness of spring after a 
gloomy and cold winter ! True, a new Chief 
was to lead the clan. But the clan’s own 
line of chieftains was fast fading away. 
Where was a better successor than Ian, son 
of Malcolm ? It was in every one’s mind to 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


71 


hasten the bridal. Said a gudewife here 
and there, “ There’s many a slip ’twixt cup 
and lip. Ian may not yet have viewed 
Barbara close at hand ! ” 

The ill-minded croakers were wrong. 
Nothing came in the way. Ian and Mal- 
colm held to their word cheerfully ; and 
one fine June morning the pipers sang out 
the “ Bridal Lilt ” in honour of Barbara and 
her husband. All that day the glen was 
like a lowland garden with yellow, red, and 
green tartans, and the white heads and 
bird-like voices of the chattering bairns. 
The pipes were never still, and the young 
people of the now happily wedded clans 
were constantly whirling in reel or fling. 

At nightfall it was another song — a 
coronach, a dirge-tune. In a deep pool of 
the Dunwater had been found the lifeless 
body of unhappy Barbara — the bride of 
an hour. What the touch of King Sheumais 


72 


THE KING’S TOUCH 


had failed to do, the touch of a greater, 
King Death, had effected. The red stain 
was gone for ever. 

As Ian, his head uncovered, looked at 
Barbara’s quiet, wan face, he partly divined 
her motives and understood the goodness he 
had lost. By her marriage she had given 
life and peace to her clan ; her death saved 
her husband the constant horror of her 
presence. 


IV 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 



IV 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 

I 

The keen edge is an esk’s tooth for 
biting, and great is the power of the strong 
arm. In front of them the pine trees 
totter and fall. The rough-horned cattle 
cannot oppose them. At their touch the 
tall fighters pass away. But where is the 
force that can move the heart of man ? 
Surely nor strength nor sharpness can reach 
it. The blade may pierce skin and flesh ; 
beyond these is the spirit secure, un- 
changed. Yet Alastair, the hard, the un- 
bending one, felt in the core of him a 
weapon keener than any dirk, a force 
stronger than a smith’s right arm. 

76 


76 


THE DIKE OF EWAN 


The sun was lost behind the darkness of 
Ben-y-Vrackie when Glenkilvie heard the 
word. Men in the glen ! Who could it be 
but the old foe, the people of the Blue 
Hill? Tellings were lost on them ! Would 
they never learn that the Glenkilvie fighters 
could deal harder dunts than they ? Well ! 
well ! if they were not yet satisfied they 
could have their lesson over again. 

So it was that when Alastair the Chief 
gave the word to take up targe and clay- 
more, every man of parts was already pre- 
pared ; ay, and eager for the brulzie, too. 
For of fighting there had been none for 
over a year ; and chasing the deer, or even 
the wild boar, is poor sport to name against 
the tussle of shield and dirk with shield 
and dirk. It was with light feet, then, and 
lighter hearts, that Alastair and his clans- 
men sallied forth. 

“ A bonny sight,” said light-haired Lorna, 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


77 


whose eyes were on her Hector, “a bonny 
sight, even in the half-light, to see their 
tartans flutter. But the pipes are still. 
Oh, let them strike up a stepping lilt, or 
it’s greetin’ I’ll be for him who may ne’er 
come hame ! ” 

“ Whist, lassie ! ” was an older woman’s 
comfort. “We must take what is sent 
and be thankful. If your Hector comes 
not back. Flora’s Donald may. Pipes there 
will be none to-night. Without them the 
stranger men will sleep the sounder, and 
our folk win the easier fight.” 

“ God send they may do that same ! ” 
put in the waspish wife of Muckle Colin. 
“ But small fighting is in my man without 
the sing of the pibroch at his lugs, or a 
taste of usquebaugh _ in his wame.” 

Little sound made the clansmen at the 
heel of their stunted Chief. Few words 
were spoken, for a fighting man needs store 


78 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


of wind, and a bittock to travel lay before. 
They kept step to the lilt of the Dun water 
that journeyed beside them. A slip of a 
moon showed the boulders and moss-holes 
in their path. Between Alastair and his 
ill adviser, The Man from Over the Muir, 
was routh of words. 

“ In the trews, say ye ? ” asked Alastair. 

“ Ay, in the trews ; no’ a kilt among 
them,” answered The Man from Over the 
Muir. 

“ Not the Blue Hill men, then ? ” 

“ No ; though our fool-fighters think it.” 

“ Can you name them ? ” 

“ Listen, Alastair. The laddie Conna- 
char that saw them speaks of one, tall and 
straight as a pine ; his hair light, his nose 
like a falcon’s beak, and his ankle with 
the spring of a young deer. You might, 
maybe, give a good guess now.” 

“ There are many such.” 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


79 


« Ay, but this one had no beard. On his 
lip was the hair twisted in strange, foreign 
fashion, but cheek and chin were clean.” 

“ Can it be — ? ” 

« Ewan ? My thought ! ” 

“Back — safe — from the foreign wars?” 
“ The ill luck is in it ! ” 

For the space of a lintie’s song quiet was 
between the two. But their thoughts were 
busy. Over the Muir spoke first. “We 
can end it to-night,” he said. 

“But he’s my father’s son. The clans- 
men — if they had knowledge of it — 
would never — ” 

“Toots, man, they’ll never ken till it’s 
ower late — maybe not then. We’ll be on 
them sleeping in the dark ; there will be no 
time for talk.” 

“ It seems well.” The Chief’s voice was 
uncertain as a morning wind when shoots 
are young and green. 


80 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


« It is well. Your only plan, if you 
would not have the eyes of the men and 
the hearts of the women with Ewan, the 
handsome one.” 

Alastair was stung. “ A curse upon 
him ! ” he grunted. « What wants he in 
my glen ? He has earned his fate ! ” 

On a smooth spot by the quick water 
lay Ewan, the wanderer home again, and 
his few followers. Soldiers they had been, 
yet no watch was set. They were think- 
ing no evil and dreading none, and many 
a long mile had made them weary. Had 
it not been for a piper’s pride — and your 
name shall be remembered for it, Dougal 
of the cunning finger ! — not one had ever 
wakened from his sleep. 

Long-headed Over the Muir knew where 
the enemy (as he deemed them) were lying. 
Part of the Glenkilvie men he sent by a 
roundabout to attack from below, while 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


81 


the rest of the clansmen were falling on in 
front. Oh, it was the clever thought ! But 
a fool can founder the wisest man. With 
the first lot were Dougal and his pipes, and 
Muckle Colin without his usquebaugh. As 
they drew near the fighting, Muckle Colin, 
who began to grow cold on the business, 
said, — “For the love of Heaven, Dougal, 
strike up the battle pibroch and give us 
some heartening ! ” 

“ Over the Muir says no,” answered 
Dougal, in the dorts, for he liked ill to play 
a dumb part. 

“Over the Muir is no Glenkilvie man,” 
persisted Colin. “What should he ken of 
our needs ? Strike up ! or I feel it in me 
to go the wrong road.” 

“Ay, ay, strike up, Dougal, clever lad,” 
urged others. “ There’s small thrift in 
losing a brulzie for sake of a tune.” 

Into it Dougal fell all that he could 


82 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


blow. If ever the Hill o’ Blair dirled to 
the war-note, it dirled that night. The 
piper’s chest rose and fell as if he had a 
mind to waken the world. The first he 
roused was Ewan, who knew the angry 
strain as well as he knew in the heart of 
him his mother’s low voice. In one instant 
he had leaped to his feet, grasped his 
sword, and cried his men to their fighting 
gear ; in another instant they were all at 
the red work — stabbing, hacking, cursing, 
falling, groaning, and dying ; with the slip 
of a moon watching above them, but not 
giving light enough to show the face of 
friend or foe. Dougal skirled on his chanter 
as if he were at the Reel o’ Tulloch in the 
hairst barn. 

It was quickly over. Glenkilvie was 
many and prepared ; few and unready 
were Ewan and his men. Alastair was 
victor with little loss. Yet neither was he 


THE DIKE OF EWAN 


83 


satisfied, nor Over the Muir. The “fool 
fighters,” as Over the Muir worded it, had 
spared more than they had slain. In the 
way of the plan of the cunning one had 
been a piper’s vanity. For Ewan’s voice 
and his figure had been recognised by some 
of the Glenkilvie folk, and their dunts had 
neither been so vigorous nor so relentless as 
Over the Muir had desired. 

Little wonder was it that Ewan, the 
body and limbs of him, had been known. 
As he stood in the grey light of morning 
before his captor, he looked, even with the 
bonds on him, the pick of a thousand. All 
the bigger and fairer he seemed beside the 
dwarfed, peat-brown Alastair, Glenkilvie’s 
sorry chieftain. 

“This,” said Ewan, “is a poor welcome 
home for a brother.” 

“ You might have guessed your welcome 
from our parting.” 


84 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


“ That is long by. We were young and 
foolish. The world has knocked the striv- 
ings out of me. I want but peace and 
kind faces, and the breath of the home 
air.” 

« Ay, ay, it is easy to speak fair words 
with your arms tied. Where would be my 
peace with you in the glen ? Where was 
it years syne ? — anywhere but in me ! ” 
In hot words Alastair continued : “ Think 
you we two — brothers though we be — 
were made to live together in peace and 
quietness ; I, the elder, by a short half-hour, 
a speak to the world for hideousness ; you a 
wonder of lightness and strength, a pleas- 
ure to the eyes of man and maid ? Your 
peace means my uneasiness. Every grace 
of yours is, in Glenkilvie’s thought, a gibe 
at my ill favour. On a yesterday such like 
thoughts were near taking shape in deeds 
to my disadvantage. Their last chance is 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


85 • 


by. Deal with, him, men of mine ! and 
when you have done, bring me that bonny 
dirk.” At Ewan’s side hung a dagger 
wrought with rich silver work, a weapon 
dearly won in foreign strifes. Alastair’s 
greedy eye had spied it; and good steel 
was not to be had for the taking every 
day. 

The clansmen charged to deal with Ewan 
moved not a foot to obey. Fain would 
they have freed the captive, and given him 
the hand of kindness. But a chief is a 
chief, and his say is not to be lightly 
thwarted. Yet Alastair counted too much 
on his followers’ obedience when he gave 
the command for Ewan’s death. Over the 
Muir saw that passion had carried the 
Chief a step beyond prudence. He put his 
beard to Alastair’s ear. 

“ So be it,” cried the Chief, angry and 
unable to hide his wrath. “Let him go. 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


■ 86 

but first rid him of his hungry hand and 
give it to the Dunwater holding for the 
sea. Without it he will scarce snatch at 
Glenkilvie’s headship again. We shall see, 
too, if he is then the pretty man that he 
now counts himself.” 


II 


On a night, a while later, one was cross- 
ing the long muir between Glenkilvie and 
the cold north. The Glenkilvie air 'was 
sweet on his face — sweet with the old 
flavours of the pines and grasses that are 
nowhere else so green. The wanderer’s 
mouth drank them greedily, and in the 
heart of him was a peace the breath of the 
south had never given. “ In the whole 
world where is the place like you ? ” he 
exclaimed. “ East and west, north and 
south, I have set my foot, and softer sod 
it has trodden nowhere. My eyes must 
see your freshness again if they should see 
nothing else after.” 

The stars watched him tracking the 

unmarked way over the dark heather as 
87 


88 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


if he knew every whim. Never once did 
his steps falter. When he came to the top 
of the rise that looks down on the glen — 
where the big stones are — he made a 
pause. He turned his face to the sky. 
“Too soon,” he muttered; “too soon.” 
Drawing a tattered plaid about him, he 
lay down to rest, but never to sleep. His 
thoughts favoured not sleep, for they were 
of the morrow, and hard were Alastair’s 
heart and hand. Always the o’ercome of 
his reflecting was, — “The enduring sleep 
is better than the life of a stravaigin’ 
homeless tyke.” 

A sound came to him — a sound soft 
and deep and even. “That should be a 
man’s breath,” he said to himself. Then 
he fell to thinking of the pleasures of 
sleep, with the open sky for a roof and 
the hills for walls, and every notion of ill 
and strife carried away by the cleansing 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 89 

\ 

winds. And he had the right of it, were 
it not for the awakening ! 

For a time he listened to the breathing. 
Then the fancy took him to see his neigh- 
bour’s face — was it dark or fair ? Getting 
to his feet, he threaded quietly among the 
big stones. There, sure enough, lay the 
fellow — and a short one ! No moon shone, 
and the stars were dim, so that Ewan — 
for Ewan it was — had to stoop to make 
out nose and mouth. He sprang back as 
if a viper had prodden him. It was his 
twin brother and foe to the death — 
stunted Alastair ! Heaven had given his 
enemy helpless to his hands. Ewan’s 
breath came quick and noisy ; and his 
hand, the poor hand that was left him, 
sought his breast, where lay the dirk 
that was a king’s gift. One blow at the 
quiet, dark throat, and he was rid of his 
brother — an ill brother he had been ! 


90 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


Then who but Ewan for cock of Glen- 
kilvie ? 

The time had been when Ewan’s hand 
would have quickly fulfilled Ewan’s 
thought. But over the seas and in strange 
lands he had learned strange, soft ways. 
His mind was no more that of a Glenkilvie 
man, who is ready to take an enemy as 
God sends him, in trim good or bad — if 
folded in slumber ’tis a mercy to be thank- 
ful for. 

“ 111 brother as you are,” was Ewan’s 
thought, as he fingered his blade, “you are 
aye a brother ; and you sleep. Heaven 
help me, I would fain end our feud here ; 
but custom on foreign fields has so won me 
that I cannot harm you. And fighting’s 
little in my way now, so I need hardly 
break your dream. Had I but the hand 
you robbed me of ! ” 

Again Ewan stopped and eyed Alastair’s 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


91 


dark face. The hair of the sleeper was 
long and matted together, and lay massed 
on the short grass. Raising high his dirk 
in his hand, Ewan brought it swiftly down. 
Alastair moved not. He had heard no 
sound, had felt no pain. His brother’s dirk 
had pierced through his thick locks, pinning 
him to the ground. 

“ When you waken and see my dirk 
you will ken who has had you at his 
mercy this night,” said Ewan to himself, 
as he passed on to Glenkilvie. In the 
east white arrows began to stab the dark- 
ness. 

A strange awakening was that of 
Alastair. He imagined a wolf or boar 
was at his head. With a wild yell he 
leaped up, leaving a wealth of hair 
behind him. Wonder followed hard on 
fear when he saw the silver-chased dagger. 
It was easy for him to guess who had 


92 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


been there while he slept. Not so easily 
could he understand how he yet counted 
life his own. Had he (Alastair) been 
Ewan, and Ewan been Alastair, what 
would have happened ? He called to 
mind his order after the fight that Ewan 
should be slain, and felt deep in the 
heart of him something like the begin- 
nings of shame. But as yet he perceived 
nothing clearly. « A fool’s action was 
Ewan’s, when for one good dunt he 
might have been Chief ! What was in 
him to stay his hand ? ” Striding home- 
ward, he strove to bottom it. At Glen- 
kilvie the first to greet him was The 
Man from Over the Muir. 

“ News ? the best of news, Alastair ! 
Ewan’s in the glen against your word. 
We’ll tether him up by the neck to an 
elm bough and have done with him.” 

« Where said you you came from ? ” 


THE DIRK OF EWAN 


93 


was the chieftain’s question for answer 

— from the point, to The Man’s thinking. 
“ Well you know it, Alastair, friend. 

From over the muir — a bonny place. 
But for my regard for you — ” 

“It’ll be many a day since you saw 
your ain folk.” 

“ You may say it. Chief.” 

“ Take your stick in your hand, or 
they’ll be saying you’ve forgotten them ; 
and. Over the Muir, I’ll send Connachar 
for you when you’re needed.” 

Then Alastair gave the broad of his 
back to Over the Muir’s dour face. Look- 
ing happily on Ewan’s dagger, he cried 

— “Send me out the owner of this fair 
dirk. Kilvie Glen for Kilvie folk!” 

Ever after the brothers were brothers 
in deed as well as name ; and, when 
Alastair tint dear life in the Isla Brig 
ploy, Ewan’s was then the tongue to give 


94 


THE DIEK OF EWAN 


the word for the smile of the peat fire 
and the old rhyme ; or for the claymore 
and the red breathless work ; for labour 
or for dancing; for the hunt or the tak- 
ing of the white salmon. 



THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


V 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 

What is life without the taste of honour ? 
An empty bicker, a flowerless root, a song 
without a tune ! Wanting it, a man has 
small joy in the sharp breath of winter, 
or the rising of the sun. It Is not so 
now, they say ; to-day one may be a 
sheep, and look honest folk in the eyes. 
That I know not, nor wish to know. My 
glance is ever ' backwards. Of the old 
times I tell. Better is it, Ranald, white 
one and pure-blooded, your flesh should 
be lost to earth and sea, with never a 
“Hail” to Mary for you, than that your 
foot should still press the short green 
grass, a constant worm at your heart? 

It was a proud day for Glenkilvie the 

H 97 


98 


THE CEAVEN’S CKAIG 


day Ranald and his followers came home. 
Not fruitless had the foray been against 
the Men of the Blue Hill. Every raider 
had more than his own of swords and 
war-gear. And, sweetest sign of all ! the 
green tartan of the clan was dull with 
the best of all dyes — the dye bought not' 
at the market cross, but with the stout 
arm and the keen blade. 

“ Who had dreamt it was in the heart 
of him, the white laddie ! ” said hard- 
faced Moira to her slip of a girl. At the 
shelling door they stood. 

“ Listen to you now ! ” answered the 
girl, warmly. She was seeing the youth 
through young eyes, and it’s they put the 
glamour on the world ! « Is it a reason 

he should not be bold that he’s fair; and, 
in the reel of Tulloch, light-footed as a 
deer ? Bravery is not only with the 
black beard and rough forehead.” 


THE CEAVEN’S CRAIG 


99 


The mother laughed at the girl’s glow- 
ing cheeks. “ It was the same with me, 
my lamb,” she said ; « all were bold who 
were bonny. But Pm old now, and it’s 
the differ I know.” The pipes were scream- 
ing loud the pibroch of victory ; and the 
woman paused to listen and beat the 
swing of it with her foot. After a while 
she added, “One-legged Roderick will be 
the glad man at that tune this day.” 

“ Yes,” agreed the girl ; “ and ’twill be 
an hour of dule for Malcolm of the Dark 
Brow.” 

In the Chief’s house at night were 
gathered the men of the clan to honour 
the victors. On one side of the white- 
haired chief, Roderick the One-legged, 
sat his son Ranald ; on the other side 
was dark Malcolm, Roderick’s half-brother. 
At the pine board were the fighters and 
the wise men. Red signs of the late 
! LofC. 


98 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


day Ranald and his followers came home. 
Not fruitless had the foray been against 
the Men of the Blue Hill. Every raider 
had more than his own of swords and 
war-gear. And, sweetest sign of all ! the 
green tartan of the clan was dull with 
the best of all dyes — the dye bought not' 
at the market cross, but with the stout 
arm and the keen blade. 

“Who had dreamt it was in the heart 
of him, the white laddie ! ” said hard- 
faced Moira to her slip of a girl. At the 
shelling door they stood. 

“ Listen to you now ! ” answered the 
girl, warmly. She was seeing the youth 
through young eyes, and it’s they put the 
glamour on the world ! “ Is it a reason 

he should not be bold that he’s fair; and, 
in the reel of Tulloch, light-footed as a 
deer ? Bravery is not only with the 
black beard and rough forehead.” 


THE CEAVEN’S CRAIG 


99 


The mother laughed at the girl’s glow- 
ing cheeks. “ It was the same with me, 
my lamb,” she said ; “ all were bold who 
were bonny. But I’m old now, and it’s 
the differ I know.” The pipes were scream- 
ing loud the pibroch of victory ; and the 
woman paused to listen and beat the 
swing of it with her foot. After a while 
she added, “One-legged Roderick will be 
the glad man at that tune this day.” 

“Yes,” agreed the girl; “and ’twill be 
an hour of dule for Malcolm of the Dark 
Brow.” 

In the Chief’s house at night were 
gathered the men of the clan to honour 
the victors. On one side of the white- 
haired chief, Roderick the One-legged, 
sat his son Ranald ; on the other side 
was dark Malcolm, Roderick’s half-brother. 
At the pine board were the fighters and 
the wise men. Red signs of the late 
iLofC. 


100 


THE CKAVEN’S CKAIG 


business were not wanting on arm and 
face, nor would be for many a long day. 
For why should water be asked to take 
away the mark of a man’s good deeds? 

Sheep had been killed and a swine, 
and the air was fat with the odour of 
roasting and boiling. Soon the little black 
knives were at the juicy work, and the hour 
for merriment and the ale-cup was come. 

“ ’Twas a brave fight, Donald — here’s to 
it ! ” said Red Hamish, looking deeply into 
his cup, and with his mind fondly back 
at the foray. “ There will be greetin’ of 
bairns and women at the Blue Hill the 
night.” Then, lowering his voice, “Ken 
you aught of the deeds of Ranald ? Words 
will be wanted.” 

“ Deil take me if I once saw him for the 
reek ! It’s the queer one he’s looking : un- 
easy as a weasel. But I could speak for a 
long hour of the brulzie.” 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


101 


“ Ay, and your own doings.” 

“ Not on yours, I may say ! ” 

“ I’m as pretty a man as you ; and that 
I’ll prove if you’ll step out to the grass ! ” 
The fiery Hamish sprang to his feet and 
glared at his comrade. 

“Peace! peace! Hamish, Donald,” said 
the One-legged Chief. “ There has been 
blood enough for a seven days. This is a 
time for pleasure and pressing of the hand. 
Kinsmen, fill up ! I bid you drink to the 
keen young one, my son, your Chief when I 
am gone — I care not now how soon, since 
he is worthy. Sorrow is in me I cannot 
stump with you as in the old days — curses 
on the Athol dog’s hand ! But when Ranald 
is amongst you I am not far away. Drink 
to Ranald ! and let one tell the deeds he 
wrought with the sword or the black knife. 
Still as a stone is his tongue about himself.” 
“ To Ranald ! to Ranald ! ” cried the lusty 


102 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


throats, and bickers were drained of their 
last drop of brown liquor. 

But none save Red Hamish had aught to 
tell of what Ranald had done in the battle, 
and his tale halted like a hamstrung deer. 

“ The saints help you, Hamish ! ” cried 
Malcolm, the Chief’s brother, with a sneer- 
ing laugh, “ the reek is in your throat, just 
as it was in the eyes of the others on the 
field. You have as much to tell as they 
were able to see, and that was just nothing 
at all.” 

Now Dark Malcolm had desired to lead 
the foray himself, having designs of one day 
being Chief. “ My nephew Ranald,” he had 
said, “ is but a lad. Let me lead this once. 
When he is older none shall follow him 
more gladly than I.” But Roderick the One- 
legged had made answer : “ No ; Ranald is 
child of mine. He follows none. Leader 
you cannot be while Ranald is to the fore.” 


THE CRAVEN’S PRAIG 103 

After, Malcolm had ever an ill look for 
Roderick’s fair son, and, when he dared, 
sought to belittle him. 

The vexed chieftain, after hearing Mal- 
colm’s gibing words, roared angrily to the 
bard, the babbling teller of tales : “ Sing us 
a song, a loud song, lazy one ! Is the reek 
also in your gizzard ? Let your voice stir 
us and make warm our blood, if you would 
keep your skin whole. Sing ! sing ! ” 

Into his ancient strain, beginning “ Sons 
of heroes,” the aged bard hastily raised his 
shaking voice. The old impossible deeds 
that in his day had done duty for Roderick 
himself, and had served others long before 
him, were told anew to the honour of 
Ranald. Was not he the Giant-slayer, the 
Torrent-stemmer, the Feeder of the Black 
Ravens ? Where on earth or sea was an- 
other like to him ? 

With a mocking smile on his lip Malcolm 


104 


THE CHAVEN’S CRAIG 


beheld the young Ranald sTilfer this sense- 
less eulogy. But the jog of the rhyme, the 
spell of the child-learnt words, were enough 
for the others, the simpler ones. Ranald 
became to them one of their great heroes. 
No longer was he mere mortal like them- 
selves. He was grown a worthy theme for 
song, a wonder as of the old times. It is 
thus the bard’s voice changes the world to 
the foolish and believing. 

While the song lasted, Ranald sat white- 
faced, dull-eyed, thinking in his heart many 
things. The hateful fight rose again before 
him — the quick tongues of flame, the 
gleaming steel, the fierce loud slogan, the 
shouts, the groans, the o’ermastering dread 
of death, the fear of shame, the hiding 
shroud of smoke, and the victorious cries of 
his clansmen. The grievous thoughts he 
had endured in the struggle were born anew 
while the bard was loud in meaningless 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


105 


praises — praises, to Ranald’s ear, worded 
in deliberate mockery. 

“ What am I,” he cried in his heart, “ that 
in my veins should run the blood of brave 
ancestors ? Oh, let me hide myself on some 
solitary coast far from men’s eyes and 
tongues.” 

Once he caught Malcolm’s look upon him, 
and fancied his uncle gathered from his 
troubled aspect the shameful and gnawing 
secret — a secret too loud and full of pain 
to be long hidden. And the result if it 
should be discovered ? He thought of the 
consequent refusal by his kinsmen of the 
hand of friendship, of his stricken father’s 
grief, of his uncle’s sarcasms and triumph, 
and felt on his head the sorrows of a world. 

“ Ranald ! Ranald ! our Chief ! our hero ! ” 
was the cry of the clansmen when the bard 
had made an end of his song. « Health and 
a young bride to him ! ” 


106 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


From his seat slowly rose the son of 
Roderick. His words flowed thin and 
broken like a stream in a thirsty summer. 

“ I am not worthy of your bard’s verses, 
of your applause, kinsmen,” he said, with 
eyes that sought the floor. “ Yet would I 
like to show that, weak as is my flesh, my 
heart has strivings towards strong things — 
things worthy of song and memory. There 
is a deed that since the ploy of the Blue 
Hill cries to be done. Kinsmen, will you 
follow me and do it ? ” 

The thought of more carnage fired the 
men’s eyes. 

“ Ay, to the world’s end, and that’s be- 
yond the Spey.” 

“ Then, on the cross of the dirk, pledge 
me your word to fulfil any command of 
mine without question and on the instant 
— to strike without flinching the quarry I 
shall point out, were it your dearest.” 


THE CEAVEN’S CEAIG 


107 


On the rood the word was joyfully 
pledged. “ When,” asked Hamish, hot with 
the drink, “ when shall we make ready ? 
It’s my hand that’s weary doing nobody’s 
business.” 

“ Now ! ” answered Ranald. “ The sky 
is pale with morning behind the Hill of 
Blair. Enough has been eaten and drunk. 
On with your fighting gear and meet me at 
the one-mile wood.” 

Each man sought his own but and ben, 
and Ranald was left alone with his father, 
the old and war-worn. The chieftain sat 
huddled up on his seat, open-mouthed and 
sleeping noisily. He dreamt of the future 
of his clan when he should be gone. It was 
become the greatest between Spey and Tay ; 
and Ranald was its Chief. “ And they 
named you the lily-one, the child-faced, 
Ranald, my brave ! ” he muttered. 

Ranald unbuckled his sword-belt from 


108 


THE CRAVEN’S CRAIG 


his hip, and flung it on the floor. His 
sword he snapped across his knee, and in 
the midst of the smouldering pine logs cast 
his skene-dhu. “ Farewell, O luckless 
father,” he said ; “ the last of your race 
salutes you. When you awake, think 
your son has done the only thing son of 
yours could do. The hand of God is heavy 
on you. Farewell.” 

When Ranald joined his fully armed 
men at the one-mile wood, they saw with 
wonder he carried neither sword nor targe. 
But so stern and high was his face, and 
he walked with so sure and swift a 
foot, that they could not think his mind 
had played him false. On through the 
wet, knee-deep heather and grass they 
marched, stirring the heavy brown grouse. 
The grey, hook-beaked whaup wheeled 
round and o’er them, screaming angrily at 
the invaders of its solitudes. In their ears 


THE CEAVEN’S CRAIG 


109 


a snell wind whistled, and the dawn had 
no gladness in it. 

“ What fool’s course is this ? ” said one 
to his neighbour. “ I thought it had been 
Tullibardine’s swine ; but Ben-y-Gloe is 
westward.” 

In the cold north was no enemy, yet 
northward they fared ! A struggling sun, 
glimpsing over the Boar’s Snout, saw the 
deerskin brogues in a difficult land of whin 
and stone. For a moment they halted at 
the quiet birthplace of the Blackwater 
that, strong and loud, washed their own 
Glenkilvie. 

Here it was that Ranald said the one 
word (forgetting his “ Forward ! ”) that was 
in his mouth that long walk. “ God’s 
earth, and Roderick’s, is a fine place to 
draw breath in ! ” said he. Sharp he put 
to the end of the saying, “ Learn that same 
or ever it is too late.” And he said it 


no 


THE CEAVEN’S CKAIG 


where a brock would not have made his 
den ! 

Little time was there for taking pleasure 
in the black stones and the bare grey earth 
— if pleasure there was in them. A 
draught of the spring, and again to the 
weary wet march. Into what land ? 
Against what foe ? 

“ I ken now ! ” said an old man of lag- 
ging foot, as a wild pass was entered — a 
pass of boulders like Angus stirks for size 
and darkness. “ It’s fifty years since I was 
at the Craven’s Craig. What are we here 
for the day ? ” 

They put foot to the slope of a steep 
mountain and struck skyward. As they 
climbed, an eagle rose from above them. 
Pausing amid the clouds, he watched their 
ascent. Years were on his head, and the 
last band he had been disturbed by — 
and that was on a long yesterday — had 


THE CEAVEN’S CKAIG 


111 


brought him fat and fair feathers. Deep 
breath and the strong toe at length carried 
Ranald and his friends to a high rocky 
level. On one side was a sheer leap into 
air a goat would have winked at. What 
looked like two or three clean-picked bones 
were lying near ; maybe they were but 
barkless fir branches. 

“ In God’s name, Ranald,” asked Hamish, 
« what are we in this uncanny spot for ? 
There is no foe here ! ” 

“There is that, and the worst the clan 
has known ! Mind, kinsmen all, your 
solemn word on the cross. Take your 
claymores and, at my word, strike.” 

“ Strike ! There is none to strike.” 

“ Listen. I am not the true man you 
think. It was sickness to me last night 
to hear your generous words, to see your 
kind eyes. At the Blue Hill I, Ranald, 
Roderick’s son, in the reek of battle. 


114 


‘THE CKAVEN’S CRAIG 


was done like a clansman. But tell not 
of his cry. Who names it has to reckon 
with me, and this.” He laid a finger on 
the hilt of his claymore. 

But Hamish, too, treads the quiet land. 


YI 

THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


/ 

















VI 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 
I 

By the side of the wood that climbs 
the Brock Hill she was seated when 
Farquhard, the young Chief of the Mac- 
finns, first set eyes on her. It was his 
earliest thought that he beheld one of the 
Good People, the People that dwell among 
the tree shadows, so fair ^ was her hair, so 
bright was her scarlet tunic with its yellow 
trinkets. His second glance told him this 
could not be. The Good People are of 
small growth ; this, though she was young, 
was a maid of stature and presence. 
Unconscious that anything was near save 
the trees and the birds, the girl went on 
feeding a wood fire, over which hung a 
117 


118 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


small iron pot. Near by a shaggy shaltie, 
a pony from the northern isles, was biting 
greedily at the short wayside grass. Its 
flanks and legs were moist and dusty, as if 
'it had come a long distance. On the 
ground lay a bundle of such odds and ends 
as travellers need. Beside the bundle 
was a set of pipes worn with use and 
weather, the tartan of the wind bag so 
faded as to be that of any or no clan. 

Farquhard gave the girl a kind good 
evening. 

At the words she turned on him a 
pair of large soft eyes, eyes that had surely 
gathered their light from some dawn-lit 
well, and their colour from a summer sky. 
As the sun’s warmth penetrates even the 
cold depths of the earth, so her glance 
found its way to the Chief’s heart. He 
trembled with a joy the claret cup had 
never given him, that he had never found 
in the dice-box. 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


119 


“ You are not of this country ? ” asked 
the Chief. 

“ I come from far — very far.” 

“ How do they name your land ? ” 

“ Why should I tell it to a stranger ? ” 

« Do not think of me as a stranger. 
Think of me as a friend — such I hope 
to be.” 

“ My land is everywhere — and no- 
where.” The maid sighed. “ The sky is 
my roof, the grass my pillow.” 

“ A wanderer ? ” 

“Even so. But do not think I com- 
plain. Life in a narrow corner of the 

broad earth must be a weary thing. 
There is such changeful beauty everywhere 
— the green of the lowland fields, the hill 

scent of the heather, the flight of the 

swallow, the burn’s murmur, the sea’s 
loud voice, the brown, steadfast rocks. 
If we dwell by one of these, do we not 


120 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


lose some of the others ? Yet,” she 
continued, her mood changing, “ sometimes 
I think it must be a sweet thing to know 
one spot better than all others, and to call 
it home.” 

Farquhard was listening to her tongue 
as if he were hearing the harp of Ossian. 
“ Go on,” he said, when, too soon, she had 
finished. 

“ Go on,” she echoed, in surprise. 
“ There is no more. I have done.” 

In his own heart the youthful Chief 
continued the reflections the girl had 
started. What would his own home be 
with such a sweet creature in it ? Surely 
not the place of debauchery and gaming it 
had for long been. But a haven rather, 
where he might ever find refreshment and 
rest in times of weariness ; a constant well 
from whence to draw pure and strengthening 
thoughts and impulses. Had she reigned 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


121 


mistress of his home, the task that awaited 
him on the morrow would never have been 
his — the task that only a short hour since 
appeared so pleasant and so notable ; but 
that now in its true colour he recognised as 
undignified and mean. 

Farquhard hid his wishes in speech. 
“ Down the glen,” said he, “ is bonny. In 
the spring the broom flames on the hillsides, 
and the white lambs feed in peace. A place 
of song and light laughter ! A place you 
would surely love ! Leave for a while your 
dusty roads, and make your home there.” 

A smile was on the girl’s face as she 
answered him. “You have a cunning 
tongue. But the heart cries for more than 
greenness and pleasure. Where the old man 
goes, I go ; and he is a wanderer, a man of 
the paths.” 

“ The old man ? ” 

“Ay, the old man, my good friend, my 


122 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


more than father, Kenrick. I hear his foot 
now.” 

From the wood there stepped a little, 
withered, hook-nosed fellow, with a keen 
dark eye. His white hair fell in ripples on 
his shoulder. Like the tartan on the pipes, 
the striping of his kilt and vest was not to 
be recognised. Time had touched them 
roughly. But, faded as were the garments, 
they were worn with an air of consequence. 
In the hand of the wearer of them was a 
newly snared rabbit, destined, no doubt, for 
the steaming pot. 

The glance of Kenrick of the Paths 
lighted first with kindness on the girl, then 
with suspicion on Farquhard. “ It gets 
late,” he said harshly to the latter; “you 
will scarce reach Folda ere dark.” 

“ How do you know I am for Folda ? ” 
inquired Farquhard. 

“ All the world is for Folda to-night. 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


123 


Besides, I have not for sixty years blown 
the pipes and taught how to ply foot and 
toe without knowing a man of art when I 
see him. The cut of your kilt, the balance 
of your head, the spring of your ankle, show 
the dancing man.” 

Had the words been said at noon the 
Chief would have reckoned them high praise. 
Now they humbled him. The Chief of the 
Macfinns known, not as a Chief, but as a 
mere dancer — a thing whose glory is in his 
toes ! 

“ You are right, I am for Folda,” acknowl- 
edged Farquhard at last. “ But I would 
fain rest here a while, old fellow. I am 
tired and would gladly hear your news. 
You have come from far. How goes the 
west country ? Is the Great Duke at peace 
or at war ? ” Discreet Farquhard thought 
to win over Kenrick by these soft sayings ; 
but all the time his mind, like his eyes, was 


124 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


busy with the easy doings and motions of 
the girl at her cooking. 

Kenrick’s brow drew together. “Of what 
clan are you ? ” he questioned. 

“ I am a Macfinn.” 

“ A Macfinn ! ” cried the old man of the 
dances, and his voice spoke a hate deep and 
dark as the howff of the lost. “ A Macfinn ! 
And you would eat with us ! Never ! Many 
strange things may happen, but not that. 
Friendly I may be with hell itself, but 
never with a Macfinn. Away with you — 
dog of a dog’s race ! ” 

Amazed Farquhard heard the outbreak. 
“ What have I done ? ” he inquired. 

“ You are the son of your father,” was the 
angry answer. “ That is enough. The 
hawk and the sparrow hold no converse 
with each other. I change words with no 
Macfinn.” 

“ And you, maiden,” said Farquhard, 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


125 


turning to the girl, “ do you also look on my 
clan with hate ? ” 

“ Speak not with the lass,” screamed Ken- 
rick, his voice shaking with passion. “ Dare 
not to look upon her. Lowly and poor as 
she seems, not a Macfinn — great as they 
think themselves — shall ever win smile 
from her. Begone ere I use my hand on 
you.” 

Farquhard smiled at the frail old fellow^s 
vain threat. But he saw that it was useless 
to endeavour to press company and friend- 
ship on one to whom his clan name was so 
detestable. So, with the image of the girl 
still in his eyes, and the hope in his heart of 
seeing her again, he slowly took himself off 
towards Folda. 

When he was out of sight Kenrick of 
the Paths turned to the girl. Her brow 
was clouded and her lips quivered. “Tell 
me, Breta,” he said, and trouble was in 


126 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


his face, “ did that cursed Macfinn give 
you his own as well as his clan’s name ? ” 

“ Cursed I cannot call him,” Breta an- 
swered, “ for he showed nothing but kind- 
ness. I cannot remember that he gave 
his name. I am sure I should have re- 
membered if he had. How quick your 
temper is, good Kenrick — how unreason- 
able.” 

“Not too quick. He is a Macfinn — the 
fiend and flame to them I Listen, Breta, 
dear one. It is time you heard your story 
from lips that will soon be too old to tell 
it. When you have heard you will know 
why I love not the Macfinns ; why you 
should not love them.” 

“Speak on. I shall pay good heed.” 

“ When you first saw the light, Breta, 
all this glen from here to Folda and be- 
yond was not Macfinn land, but Gow land. 
And you that have danced and sung at 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


127 


fairs and trysts for alms were daughter 
to the Chief. On a night the Macfinns fell 
upon us — for Gow am I too — with dirk 
and claymore, and the Folda burn ran red 
with our blood for three long days. Scarce 
a Gow was left in the glen. You were the 
only one still living with full chief’s blood 
in you. From your pillow of eagle’s down 
I took you and fled with you over the hills 
away from the hard Macfinns. You know 
how we have wandered up hill and down 
brae for eighteen weary years, till I have 
won the name of Kenrick of the Paths. 
But a day of restoration nears, and an end 
to our stravaigin’. I have instructed you 
in the arts a chief’s daughter should know. 
Where in the Hielands is one can dance 
like you? Who can chant the lays of the 
old bards as you can ? ” 

“ Who has had a teacher with your 
skill, good Kenrick ? ” said Breta, kindly. 


128 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


« It is true,” assented the Man of the 
Paths proudly ; “ a good master makes a 
good pupil. But you had it in you, or my 
skill had been naught. The time is now 
come to put your talent to use. Far- 
quhard, the young Chief of the Macfinns is 
a wonder for vainglory and silliness. Fond 
he is, too, of the wine-cup, and his finger 
knows the touch of the dice-box. It is 
God gives him into our hand ! Most he 
prides himself on his dancing skill. When 
the liquor was in his brain, and his cronies 
were round him, he swore that none in all 
Scotland could foot the quick reel or slow 
strathspey as he could. He was laughed 
to scorn, and in his wrath he pledged his 
headship of the clan and all the glen-lands 
besides that it was as he said. So a day 
was set for testing -the matter, and to- 
morrow, on the Carse of Folda, the Mac- 
finns are to see their country and their 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


129 


chieftainship danced for. It serves the 
swine right they should be the sport of ) 
the world ! Were I a Macfinn, as, thanks 
to heaven ! I am a Gow, I could find it 
in me to set my dirk in young Far- 
quhard’s heart for his idiocy. But a chief 
is nothing less than a chief, and few folk 
care to oppose one.” 

Breta was listening with deep interest. 

“ This Farquhard,” she said, “ surely he is 
foolish — ” 

“ A fool of fools ! ” broke in Ken- 
rick, scornfully. “ But one’s foolishness is 
another’s fortune ! The sun has long been 
on the Macfinns ; to-morrow it may glint 
on the Gow side of the wall. Far mis- 
taken am I if your light foot and true ear, 
Breta, together with my pipes, do not win 
back the headship of the glen for the 
ancient Gows, whose it should be.” 

Breta was filled with surprise. “You 


130 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


mean that I — ” she was exclaiming, when 
Kenrick interrupted her. 

“ I mean that you, Breta, should dance 
yourself and your friends to honour again. 
Now, after that long story a bite and a 
sup ! Following that, a short spring to 
keep my touch and your ankles in tune. 
Then a still, deep sleep with the stars above 
us. So shall we be ready for the morrow’s 
trial of you and Farquhard.” 

Neither still nor deep was Breta’s 
slumber that summer night. But it was 
not fears for the chances of the dancing 
that disturbed her. Were her eyes open 
or shut there stood ever in her sight the 
lithe and taking figure of the Macfinn — the 
deadly foe of herself and her race, who 
that evening had looked so kindly upon 
her. 


II 


Every man, woman, and bairn of the 
Clan Macfinn was gathered to witness the 
trial of skill on the day of the dancing. 
The contest was held on the plain by 
the waterside. Above the crowd and the 
dancers towered the black mass of the 
Hill o’ Blair. The day was fine — a blue 
heaven with white clouds ; a warm, quiet 
wind. A soft haze blurred the edges of 
the mountains to the north, and made the 
southern trees as shadows. In the pauses 
of the loud lilting pipes you could hear the 
murmur of the restless water among the 
stones. 

Little heed gave the Macfinn folk to 
heaven, or tree, or water. A weightier (as 

they thought) matter pressed on their 
131 


132 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


hearts. The folly of their young Chief — 
what evil might it not bring upon them ! 
It might be their chance to fall into the 
hands of some one — like Red Rory of 
Rannoch — whose thoughts were all of war 
and reiving. In that event little leisure 
would be theirs in which to take their ease 
in this pleasant land of Folda they had so 
well learnt to love. Or the winner of the 
day might have a mind to swell the num- 
ber of his own name at the cost of those 
called Macfinn, even as in times past the 
Macfinns had done with the beaten Gows. 
Other possibilities there were hardly more 
cheerful. 

With heavy brows and dull eyes the clan 
had turned out in the morning. Now it 
was more content. Many of the dancers 
for the chieftainship had had their turn, 
and, as yet, none had appeared at all equal- 
ling Farquhard Macfinn for grace and agil- 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


133 


ity. At all points lie had shown himself 
a master of the dance. Head, arms, and 
feet moved to every turn of the music, as 
the branches of a young birk bend to a 
summer wind. He was the tune itself 
made visible. 

“ Where is the match of our Farquhard ? 
blessings on his bonny face ! ” said a de- 
lighted girl to her father. 

“Nowhere,” was the grunted reply; 
“ nowhere — for foolishness.” 

“ Not one of them comes near him.” 

“And what does he gain if he beats 
them all ? The honour of not losing — 
that’s the sum of it! Good wisdom that 
may appear to maids and bairns, not to 
grown men. A pretty thing to stake a 
clan’s welfare and existence on the pointing 
of a toe. Better be Red Rory’s henchman 
and trot for ever in war-gear than serve as 
the stakes in the sport of such a chief as 


134 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


this Farquhard. Oh, for his old father back 
again ! He was a man of mind.” 

At this moment there was a loud shout- 
ing — a shouting of gladness and triumph. 

“ What is it, father ? ” asked the girl. 
“ I cannot see over the heads of the 
people.” 

“ It is the end of the business ; and I 
think our Farquhard has won. It is a luck 
I grudge the likes of him, though we are 
gainers by it. But here ! up you go. Now, 
can you see ? ” 

The stout clansman had raised the girl 
on his shoulder. 

“ I see well,” she answered. “ Yes, yes, 
Farquhard, clever lad, has gained. I see 
one take him by the hand and — Ah ! 
here is yet another dancer. A youth on a 
lame shaltie. An old man leads the beast — 
an old man with long, white hair ; he seems 
very weary, and his kilt is grey with dust.” 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


135 


It was Kenrick of the Paths arrived, as 
it seemed, too late to take part in the con- 
test. Unheeding the black looks and ill 
words of those he disturbed, he led his 
shaltie through the crowd right up to 
where the judging men were seated. 

“Your young companion is too late, old 
fellow,” said the oversman. “He should 
have been here long ago. The business is 
over.” 

“We meant to have arrived in good 
time,” was Kenrick’s answer, “but this 
useless brute fell lame by the way. Surely 
you will not set down our misfortune as 
our fault. A minute or two longer — what 
will it matter ? Farquhard — noble Chief ! 
would not care to have it said that he 
feared to permit — ” 

Farquhard was standing near, paying 
small attention till his name was men- 
tioned. When he heard Kenrick’s taunt — 


136 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


it was no less — his face reddened. Loudly 
he cried to the oversman : “ Let the grace- 
less fellow have his will. One more or less 
is of small account.” 

« Where is your piper ? ” asked the overs- 
man at Kenrick. 

Without replying, the Man of the Paths 
took from his bundle his age-stained pipes, 
and, tucking the windbag under his elbow, 
commenced to tune. He was a different 
man when the shrill sound was in his ears. 
His fatigue dropped from him, the years 
went out of his back and limbs, his eye 
became bright, and he paced the grass like 
a man of thirty. Loud and strong came 
the quick notes. 

“No novice this,” thought the oversman, 
“ and not to be lichtlied. I hope Far- 
quhard may not have made a mistake.” 

By this time the dancer was ready to 
begin. And a gay fellow he was ! The 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


137 


best of new tartan on him, and silver buc- 
kles shining like ripples in the sunlight. A 
graceful figure and a trim, shapely leg. 
Little space was there to get a steady view 
of him, for he was scarcely in the eye of 
the beholders when he was at the heel and 
toe work to the singing of Kenrick’s pipes. 
If music ever put spring into a dance, 
surely Kenrick’s was the tune to do it. It 
was a tune no Macfinn fellow knew, but 
the Gow men who were there under a name 
other than their own knew it. And their 
pulses beat fast, and they clenched their 
teeth as they listened. It was the old Gow 
clan tune, silent in that glen for long years 
— the dear old tune, « The Gaucy Gows.” 
Wild hopes awoke within them. Was it pos- 
sible the dancer could be of their own blood ? 
Were it so, and should he be successful, they 
might again be able to wear their own 
proper name and hold up their heads before 


138 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


folk. Eagerly the poor remnant of the 
Gows watched the quick-moving feet and 
the lithe, swaying figure. 

Their hopes grew stronger and more 
strong when the bald eagle from the black 
rocks, the bird with the years upon it, 
the bird that was the ancient friend of the 
Gows, and that had never come near the 
place since it had belonged to the Macfinns, 
sailed down from its eyrie and fixed its 
keen glance on the dancer. The bird of 
far-off memories knew its friends. It had 
seen many changes. Perhaps it saw an- 
other near at hand — the downfall of the 
hated Macfinns and the restoration of the 
Gows, a restoration they had never ceased 
to look for. 

In the heart of the old piper Kenrick 
were feelings of a like kind, but feelings 
intensified a hundredfold. For it had been 
by his poor hands that this dancer, this sole 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


139 


representative of his chieftain’s race, had 
been saved from death, been nurtured and 
trained through difficult years, and at last 
placed in the position of that day — a posi- 
tion in which the old-time possessions of 
the Gows might all be regained. The old 
fellow felt that his work was now nearly 
over. Head and sinew were failing. But 
he would meet the end well content if he 
knew that he had been the means of re- 
storing his clan to its proper place of 
honour in the Highlands. The rump end 
of life that was still left him he put gener- 
ously into his pipes. Never had he blown 
such wild mirth, even in the day of his far 
shadowy youth. To the other pipers there 
his seemed a wizard, not a mortal, hand. 

And Breta — for the dancer was Breta 
— did his piping justice. Like one of 
the Quiet Folk beneath the midnight 
trees, she danced and flang, thinking little 


140 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


of the reason for her dancing, but filled 
with the pulsing music. Her limbs were 
a joy to her; their exercise was a delight. 
Forgotten were the presence of the people, 
and the severe eyes of the judging men ; at 
last, even the music itself : she felt as a 
swallow feels that curves and sways in 
unconscious ease and gladness through the 
summer air. 

Suddenly a finger of ice was laid on her 
heart. She had caught sight of a face — a 
face wan as death itself, a face full of re- 
morse and misery. It was the face of that 
Macfinn who had spoken with her on the 
night before. In the time that an eye 
needs wherein to wink she had surmised 
everything. This Macfinn with the pain 
on his brow was the foolish young Chief 
himself ; and she was dancing him out of 
his people and land. 

Was it intention ; did she repent for the 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


141 


sorrow she was bringing this fair youth ? 
Or did heart and nerve give way ? None 
can tell the cause for certain ; but it is 
truth that her foot, that till now had been 
so sure and quick, wavered, and failed to 
come in with the note of Kenrick’s pipes. 
There was a loud murmur from the crowd. 
The stumble had been marked. 

Louder than before the pipes pealed out. 
Here seemed no fainting, no irresolution ; 
but, rather, boundless strength and confi- 
dence. It was old Kenrick’s last great 
effort on behalf of his race. All the 
breath of life that yet remained to him 
he gathered into one tremendous blast as 
in despair he perceived Breta falter. Vain 
was the sacrifice. Before the pipes had 
fallen on the ground from his relaxed 
fingers the dancer had come to a broken, 
an ignominious end. Farquhard had tri- 
umphed over all competitors. Slowly the 


142 


THE MAN OF THE PATHS 


bald eagle outspread its wings and soared 
heavily away. 

Gows and Macfinns each wore their own 
names after, and dwelt together, the best 
of friends and neighbours, in the same glen. 
Bickerings were forgotten. They but fol- 
lowed the example of their Chief Far- 
quhard and Breta, his good leddy. After the 
dance was a wedding. Feud was changed 
to friendship, and all difficulties were 
solved. 

On the summit of the Hill o’ Blair is a 
tall grey cairn. It was raised in remem- 
brance of old Kenrick, the Man of the 
Paths. 


• , M ’ ' •' ' '*'■■ ' ; ' !v’*’''* f\' 


YII 


THE CHIEF’S PORTEAIT 


















VII 


THE CHIEF’S PORTRAIT 
I 

When the Clan Stormont had its foot 
firmly set in the green glen of Bellaty it 
was Neil Stormont that was the big man. 
For his was the credit of it all. By his 
long head and strong arm had his followers 
been guided hither out of their bare north- 
ern fields and black rocks. Before him and 
his claymores the olden inhabitants of the 
place had melted away in such haste that 
they had failed to take with them their fat 
stots and ewes. Neil was king of the rich 
country-side, and, as I have said, was a big 
man indeed — and that in other eyes than 
his own — and founder of a clan. Big was 


146 


146 


THE CHIEF’S POETRAIT 


he in body as well as in his thoughts. 
That you have seen for yourself up at the 
House, where he hangs on the walls to-day 
as lifelike in his green tartan with the red 
stripe as he was more than two hundred 
years ago. 

It is about that same portrait I would be 
telling you. In an ill day for himself Neil 
had the thought, “ Big and proud as I am, 
my time must pass. What, on a far-off 
day, will there be to show the children of 
the clan the manner of man their first chief- 
tain was ? It cannot be right that the face 
and form of a notable one should be for- 
gotten like those of any common gillie.” 

What did Neil next do but send a swift 
messenger over Tay and Forth to a south- 
ern town where a cunning painter had his 
dwelling ? The painter was bidden come to 
Glen Bellaty with his brushes and coloured 
earths, and there make a picture of the 


THE CHIEF’S POKTEAIT 


147 


Chief of the Stormonts. “ Tell the knave,” 
said Stormont, “ to bring routh of red for 
my beard, and green enough for our tartan.” 

The offered guerdon was generous, so the 
brushman lost little time in coming north 
to have a glint at his subject. Mynheer 
van Stoppelaar was the name of this 
painter. A queer-looking little Dutchman 
he was to have the setting down of such a 
big subject. His body was round and soft, 
and his face was as white and stolid as if 
he had been kneaded from one of his own 
Gouda cheeses. Spy him when his eyes 
were shut, and you thought him a dull 
lump of lard. But when these same eyes 
were open, and looking through yours right 
into the heart of you, it was a different 
tale ! Hardly a man of the young clan 
but would more readily have met a foe- 
man face to face than the gaze of Myn- 
heer. It was not the hue of the eyes — a 


148 


THE CHIEF’S POKTRAIT 


mild blue — made them so hard to bear ; 
nor was it that they glowered fixedly at 
one — that you could not charge them with. 
But quiet and soft as they were, their easiest 
glance could reach depths unstirred by an 
enemy’s frown. So the gentle touch of the 
skene-dhu succeeds where the heavy broad- 
sword has failed. 

The clansmen were wild with anger 
when they knew what the Chief would 
be at. They held to the old belief — a 
belief mine to-day — that it is an evil 
thing to meddle with pictures and images. 
Old Bridget, the wise woman, was sent 
hobbling to Neil to show him the danger 
he was running. 

“Maybe I speak blethers, Stormont, as 
you tell me, and maybe I do not,” were 
Bridget’s words ; “ but to ease my mind, 
and for your own sake and the clan’s, I 
cannot hold my tongue. We have each 


THE CHIEF’S POETRAIT 


149 


of us but one life ; and one thing can only 
be in one place at one time. If the Dutch- 
man puts you, body, face, and spirit, on 
his canvas, it is plain reason he must take 
them out of your proper self. You cannot 
live both in the picture and out of it. Trust 
to your bairns, as you well may, to keep- 
ing your face and memory alive, and give 
up this foolish notion — the only foolish 
one you ever had.” 

Stormont had scarce patience to hear 
the old woman out. He was little given 
to taking advice, and for blame he had 
no stomach whatever. Bridget, however, 
was one who had privileges. Had she 
not scryed in the crystal his success and 
glory when there were few to believe him 
or stand at his back ? So he answered 
her as gently as his nature allowed. 

“ Bridget, old friend,” said he, « my 
mind’s made up, and you speak in vain. 


150 


THE CHIEF’S PORTRAIT 


You know my heart’s in the clan, and 
in its rise. By your art you have fore- 
seen something of its great future. When 
that great future is come I want the 
clansmen to he able to point to me — or 
something like me — and say, ‘ That’s the 
fellow that made the .beginnings of us.’ ” 
The wise woman saw Neil was decided, 
but she was loth to give up her point. 
“ This ill-looking Dutchman,” she persisted, 
“ I like him not. He’ll do you harm. 
There is something uncanny in his eye.” 

Loud laughed the Chief. “ Why, woman,” 
he answered, “ that is the very thing Myn- 
heer said about you ! What ill has your 
uncanny eye ever done me ? ” 

“ None, Stormont, none ; but never for- 
get that the Dark Arts can be used for a 
good or for an evil purpose. The Dutch- 
man is not of your kin.” 

“Well, well, Bridget, I see your opinions 


THE CHIEF’S PORTKAIT 


151 


are as fixed as the Hill o’ Scrive. So are 
mine. We need not waste words.” 

Stormont in this, as in most things, had 
his will. But here, that he might get it, 
he had first to submit to another’s bidding. 
No easy business he found it, though all 
the little Dutchman asked was that he 
should stand without changing countenance 
for two long hours a day. The Chief kept 
his face fair enough the first day or two. 
After that, in a forgetful moment, the 
dour fighting look would sometimes take a 
grip of him. Then Mynheer would protest, 
saying, “ Eef you look zo, how can I make 
you pleasant ? ” “ By heaven ! if you 

make me anything else — ” the Chief’s 
answer would begin, as he laid a hand on 
his steel. Then, with an effort, he would 
stifle his impatience and put on his strained 
smile again. 

The work had not been going on for 


162 


THE CHIEF’S POKTEAIT 


more than a week when the difference 
began to be noted by some of the women. 
The step of the Chief was quieter than 
formerly, his outbursts of fury were less 
terrible. “ He is a better and a softer 
man,” was what one woman said. But 
Skilly Bridget held her tongue. Her warn- 
ing had been given once for all. 

A slow painstaking workman was the 
Dutchman. It took him six good months 
to finish his task. All that time his 
subject was d wining, d wining. As the 
picture grew more lifelike in colour and 
form, Neil Stormont’s own appearance 
became more and more that of a man 
whose days were numbered. So gradual 
was the change that only the observant 
were filled with much surprise or appre- 
hension. But the alteration was great 
indeed, for he who, when the portrait was 
begun, had been a large, big-bearded, 


THE CHIEF’S PORTRAIT 


153 


broad-chested man, was now, towards the 
finish of it, a bent, coughing, pallid 
wreck. 

One or two saw and understood every- 
thing. Had not the fear of the fat, evil- 
eyed Dutchman been upon them they 
might have spoken. Bridget, whose warn- 
ing had been despised, kept her tongue 
between her teeth. 

« The Chief must feel it himself. He 
cannot climb the brae now without a stick 
— think of it ! Why does he not kick 
Mynheer back to his Zuyder Zee ? ” It 
was an old henchman of Neil’s who 
spoke. He might have known his mas- 
ter’s build better ! The Chief was not 
one to abandon an enterprise because of 
its danger. 

One day the burden of Bridget’s 
thoughts became too heavy for her. “ If 
I do not put in my word,” she refiected. 


154 


THE CHIEF’S POETEAIT 


“ and that without delay, the soul of 
Neil Stormont will be beguiled clean out 
of his body. He deserved to suffer for 
the lightness with which he treated me. 
But he has paid a heavy enough price for 
his scorn. I’ll let bygones be bygones 
now, and do what I can for my own 
blood.” 

With that Bridget took the road to the 
Chief’s house. As she neared it she en- 
countered Mynheer van Stoppelaar. The 
painter, who wore boots and spurs as if 
for a long ride, was mounted on the 
Chief’s best horse. Black Sporran. The 
poor beast was foaming at the mouth, and 
its eye was bright with terror. As the 
Dutchman shot past with a grin on his 
fat white face, he cried, “ Good-by, 
granny. What ees left of your master 
ees in ze big room.” 

The jeering words chilled the old 


THE CHIEF’S POETRAIT 


155 


■woman. A fear gripped her that she had 
delayed too long. She remembered now 
that in the darkness of the night she had 
heard the dead drop falling, falling. 
Whose death had it announced ? At her 
greatest speed she hurried to the room 
indicated. Flinging open the door, her 
fear was in an instant laid at rest. There 
before her stood Neil Stormont, Chief of 
the Clan Stormont, and at his biggest and 
bonniest. He was in his full array of 
tartans and cairngorms, with his sword by 
his side sheathed. Over his breast flowed 
his great red beard, scarce touched with 
the grey of middle life. The look on his 
face was the happy, contented look he 
was accustomed to wear when he had won 
a difficult and bloody victory. His lips 
appeared to part to address a greeting to 
Bridget. She listened to catch his gracious 
words. Never a word came. Instead, she 


166 


THE CHIEF’S POKTEAIT 


caught from another part of the chamber 
a feeble groan — a groan as of one look- 
ing upon the bitter draught of death. 
Quickly she turned. Ah ! here, here was 
the real Neil Stormont ! And wasted, 
wan, dying. The smiling figure in the 
rich colours was a hateful, painted mock- 
ery. 

Bridget took the hand of her worn 
chieftain in her own, and pressed it to her 
lips. He seemed scarcely conscious of her 
presence. Yet he must have recognised her, 
for, though his eyes had no intelligence in 
them, she heard him mutter her name. 
“ Bridget, good Bridget,” he murmured 
brokenly, “ you were right. Life is one, and 
cannot be divided. Yet, if I cannot be with 
my clan in the flesh, I shall be with them 
there ! ” Slowly Neil raised a worn finger, 
and pointed to his lifelike, smiling portrait. 
It was his last effort. His hand fell back 


THE CHIEF’S POKTRAIT 


157 


limp, powerless ; his muscles relaxed ; and, 
as colour fades from an evening cloud, he 
faded from life. 

The wise woman, with grief at her heart, 
faced the likeness that had cost so dear. 
The lips seemed parted now, there was a 
deeper smile on the face. 


II 


Fob long years the portrait you have 
seen, and that hangs in the dining hall at 
the House, beheld the clan prosperous and 
of good fame. But there came a time when 
the heirs to the chieftainship were men 
little like their forebears. Not in the field, 
nor at the King’s side was their pleasure, but 
in the claret-cup and the shuffle of the play- 
ing-cards. If they ever thought of their 
ancestor’s portrait, it was only to consider 
how much it would bring in Saxon money 
wherewith to ease the burden of debt that 
pressed on their shoulders ever increas- 
ingly. It looked as if there would soon be 
an end to it all. Drink and wild living 
were working their usual havoc with the 

House of Stormont. They had cleared the 
168 


THE CHIEF’S PORTRAIT 


159 


boards of the whole race except one poor 
dissolute wretch, Aiken by name, who still 
called himself Chief, but who it was clear 
would not much longer wear the title. A 
sorry end to a noble folk ! 

This Aiken had gathered round him some 
wild blades like himself. With the burly, 
tartaned figure of the founder of the clan 
lowering on them from the wall, they had 
filled themselves with French meats and 
French wines, and told their shameless tales 
and sung their scandalous songs. A 
stronger excitement was now required. 
The cry was for the playing-cards. So to 
the play-room Aiken led his heated guests, 
leaving the portrait to contemplate the 
wasteful, guttering candles, the overturned 
wine-cups, and the stained table-linen. 

Soon the players were in the midst of an 
exciting game. A sore game it was for the 
Stormonts. 


160 


THE CHIEF’S POKTRAIT 


“ Damn my luck ! ” exclaimed Aiken, after 
a while. “ The end at last, and a poor one ! 
I’m cleaned out. Not a yellow-boy left.” 

“ You’re not near the length of your 
tether yet, man,” answered the drunken 
Laird of Fernate. “ The Hill o’ Scrive is 
yours, and the Balnauld Burn.” 

“ Ho, ho ! ” laughed the others loudly. 
“ Stake the Hill o’ Scrive, Aiken. A heavy 
stake, indeed ! ” 

Aiken, only half sober, but sober enough 
to tremble at what he was doing, staked 
his noble, fir-clad, cairn-crowned possession. 
And lost it. Lost it to little, cunning, silent 
Johnston from the Border-lands. That 
night the cards were the friend of Johnston 
and of none other. In his hands all the 
honours found a certain home. The mud- 
dled gamblers were astounded at such good 
fortune. 

“Johnston,” stuttered the Laird of Fer- 


THE CHIEFS PORTRAIT 


161 


nate, thinking he made a jest, “it is you 
that will be Chief of Stormont soon. 
Already you’re master of both hill and 
stream. For old friendship’s sake I beg 
you will keep a gillie’s place for Aiken.” 

Aiken swore an oath, and tossed off a 
cup of liquor. 

But Johnston smiled gently. “A good 
joke, Laird,” he said. “But Aiken is not 
nearly done yet. He still has his meadow- 
lands. Take my word, he will win every- 
thing back, and that soon. Fortune, the 
fickle jade, is sure, as always, to jilt me at 
the end.” 

In such a desperate case was Aiken, so 
inflamed was he with wine, that he risked 
those green meadowlands for which John- 
ston in his heart was hungry. It was a 
mad act, but it was Aiken’s sole remain- 
ing chance. If he won, everything was 
retrieved ; if he lost — well, he could make 


162 


THE CHIEF’S POKTKAIT 


a hole in the Balnauld Burn that a short 
hour since had been his own. 

Ere the cards were dealt, one entered, 
and without knocking, — a big red man, 
clad in tartan, and wearing a sword. 

“ I was passing, gentlemen,” said he with 
an old-time accent, « when I saw the cheer- 
ful light at your window and, heard your 
merry laughter. I took the liberty to step 
in. You will excuse me ? ” The wmrds 
were spoken as if the speaker were accus- 
tomed to have his way. 

So intent was Aiken on the game that 
he scarce glanced up. “ You are Vi^elcome 
to join us,” he carelessly said. Most of 
the others were too drunk to inspect the 
intruder very narrowly. The Laird of 
Fernate muttered, “ Funny old boy to get 
himself up like a fighting-cock. Fancy I’ve 
seen his face somewhere.” 

All eyes were now on the game between 


THE CHIEF’S PORTEAIT 


163 


Johnston and the Chief of the Stormonts. 
It went evenly till almost the end. Until 
the last card was played there was nothing 
to choose between the players. It was a 
trying time for Aiken. On one side was 
life and the possibility of regaining his old, 
honourable position ; on the other, ruin, dis- 
honour, and death. Even his fuddled 
guests gathered something of the serious- 
ness of the affair, and tried to look solemn 
over it. No one followed the game more 
keenly than the stranger. On Johnston 
and his movements his eye was fixed as 
steadily as the north star watches the Hill 
o’ Scrive. 

“ Can you better that ? ” cried Aiken, 
triumphantly, throwing down a card — a 
king. 

There was a slight pause. Johnston’s 
hands, to the view of the watchers, seemed 
to tremble. There was a momentary sound 


164 THE CHIEF’S PORTEAIT 

as of wind-stirred leaves. Then, with his 
quiet smile Johnston showed the ace that 
made him — as he thought — owner of all 
Stormont. 

But ere he had placed it on the table a 
voice of thunder had shouted, “Cheat!” 
and a goblet filled with wine had struck 
him between the eyes. 

It was the stranger who had spoken; 
his hand had cast the wine-cup. Silent 
he now stood, facing the amazed com- 
pany, his hand upon his sword-hilt. 

“You shall pay dearly for this,” cried 
Johnston, wiping the stains from his face. 

“ Then it must be now or never. I 
must be far hence ere morn,” was the 
reply. The speaker drew his blade — a 
broad, heavy claymore of ancient make. 

“At him! Johnston, lad,” incited the 
Laird of Fernate. “ The fogey knows 
little of fence, I warrant you. Teach 


THE CHIEF’S POETRAIT 


165 


him a French trick or two.” Johnston 
was famed for his skill with the rapier. 

They were set face to face in the room 
— the stranger, angry, red, and’ big; John- 
ston, small, shaven, and cool. Fernate 
dropped the handkerchief, and at the 
clashing business they went. It did not 
take long. Like a whirlwind he of the 
claymore rushed on his adversary — rushed, 
as the beholders thought, to his death. For 
Johnston, cunning carle ! received him at 
the rapier’s point. The blade seemed to 
pass through the tartan plaid, and into 
the broad breast beneath. Yet the fellow 
who should have been wounded to his 
death fell not. Seemingly unhurt, he 
brought down his claymore with the full 
force of his arm on Johnston’s head. The 
little man dropped without a groan on the 
oaken floor. Aiken and his guests rushed 
to their friend’s assistance. When they 


166 


THE CHIEF’S POETKAIT 


had ascertained he was quite dead they 
rose, sobered and grave, to speak with 
the triumphant one. But the stranger had 
disappeared. 

As you know, a chief of the true Stor- 
mont race rules over the Clan Stormont 
to-day. Aiken took his lesson to heart, 
and prosperity came back to him, and 
companioned his children. 

A word about the portrait. As Myn- 
heer painted it, Neil’s sword was sheathed. 
To-day, as you saw it, the steel was bare 
— and red. Some say, and I say with 
them, that it is Johnston blood colours it. 


VIII 


FAIRY FERLIE 


















VIII 


FAIRY FERLIE 
I 

“Yoites is the quick finger on the 
pipes, Neil, old friend,” said one. “The 
strathspey has twinkling feet and snap- 
ping fingers in it.” 

“ Ay,” said another, “ and you can put 
wind and angry thoughts into the war 
march.” 

“ And who can raise the coronach, the 
death tune, like you ? It is as if a thou- 
sand widows wailed.” 

“ I have had my day,” answered Neil 
of the white beard. “ It is past. My 
touch is going ; my wind fails. The 

shadow I am of what I was.” 

169 


170 


FAIRY FERLIE 


« Not so, skilled one. None in the Glen 
can beat you.” 

“That may be. Piping is little to brag 
of now. But playing I have heard that 
was to mine what the laverock’s stave is 
to the twitter of the shilfa.” 

“ Tell us of it, Neil. Yours is the long 
vision backwards.” 

“Pass me over the small brown set 
that hangs above the ingle.” 

The queer little pipes with the green 
ribbons were placed in the hands of the 
old player. He touched them lovingly. 

“ A tune ! Neil, a tune ! We never 
heard their voice.” 

“ And never shall ! ” was the word Neil 
gave back. “ I have blown them a hun- 
dred times ; but speak for me they will 
not. Yet on a day that is no more have 
I heard from them the most leaping 
notes ! ” 


FAIRY FERLIE 


171 


“ It is a wonder yon tell us, Neil ! Let 
Conacher try his skill. He has the finger 
for it.” 

“ Conacher ! ” cried Neil, with disdain. 
Then grief was his that he had spoken 
hardly, and he added, “ Well, well, Con- 
acher is young, and youth can do every- 
thing it has not tried. Take the pipes, 
Conacher, lad, and don’t spare the wind.” 

The young fellow blev/ with all his 
force, but never a sound came from the 
small brown pipes. 

“Take a long breath, Conacher,” said 
the old player, smiling ; “ then, at it 
again ! ” 

“ It’s the chanter’s wrong,” protested 
Conacher, flushed with shame. 

“ Or the windbag perhaps,” said Neil, 
his smile deepening. 

“ Or your elbow, Conacher — more power 
to it ! ” — put in Lachlan, who was Con- 


172 


FAIEY FERLIE 


acher’s friend, and could speak what an- 
other dared not. 

After the would-be player had tried 
again, and with as ill success as before, 
Neil said something for his comfort. “ It 
is not the fault of your elbow, Conacher, 
nor the chanter’s fault ; nor is aught wrong 
with the windbag.” 

“ Then where is the fault, man ? ” 

“ There is never a fault anywhere, 
friends. Only the pipes gave away their 
sweetest note years since, and as they can 
never sing better, they will never sing 
again at all. The spell is on them.” 

“ The spell ! ” 

And, to say a true word, the small 
brown pipes had a weird look. The green 
of the ribbon was not the green of tree 
or grass or salt wave ; nor was it the 
green of any clan tartan from Tayside to 
the Spey. It was a shade no man knew. 


FAIEY FERLIE 


173 


“ Here is the tale,” said Neil. « In tell- 
ing it, I mean no disrespect to any living 
creature ; least of all, to our very good 
friends, the Good People, the Folk of 
Peace. Betty was like a posy and a bird 
to the clan when she was with it. Like 
a bird, for her song was always feeling 
about the hearts of the maids and the 
young people. Like a posy, for her face 
was a cluster of lilies and wild roses with 
two wood violets set in the midst — violets 
she surely took from the shady forest place 
where Donald, her gudeman, saw her first. 
Little wonder was there that Donald 
fancied her, wood fairy though she was. 
It was more for surprise that Betty left 
her green ways and pleasant night trip- 
pings to take house with Donald. But 
Donald’s heart was kind, and his form 
was shapely and springy if he had no 
chief’s blood in him. Shakings of the 


174 


FAIRY FERLIE 


head there were when first he brought 
home his fairy bride. But these ceased 
when it was found that Betty put on no 
high airs, but behaved in a neighbourly 
fashion. A sweet and heady ale she 
brewed from the leaves of the purple 
wood bell soon brought her both fame and 
favour. Only in one or two points did 
she differ from the wives around her. 
For one thing, she would never wear their 
homespun hodden grey. Her dress was 
always made of some stuff of which no 
one had knowledge. The colour of it 
— a strange green — you see on the pipes 
there. Fairy and altogether, Betty, like 
wives of commoner sort, one fine morn- 
ing brought a son into the world. Great 
was Donald’s joy to find that his laddie 
was even as other laddies are, without 
any sign on him of belonging to the 
under-world. Only as he grew up he 


FAIRY FERLIE 


175 


would settle to no manner of labour. 
Like his mother, he would sing from dawn 
till dark; and, if there happened to be a 
bridal, his was the foot never tired in the 
dance, and the heart that thought the 
longest reel short. It was pleasure to 
see him wheeling and laughing.” 

“ Neil, old friend, did you see all this ? 
Or is it a tale you have been told ? ” 

“ Did I see it, Conacher ? I see it 
now, man ! The little fellow in his 
tartans — for he took to the clan colours, 
though his mother did not ; the whirling 
dancers in the barn ; and the dark-eyed 
mother from the unknown land watching 
her bonny son. I could lay my hand on 
them ! Don’t you hear the pipes at the 
reel ? ” 

“ The dreaming is on the old fellow,” 
whispered Lachlan to Conacher. 

“ But,” went on Neil, “ there are other 


176 


FAIRY FERLIE 


things than bridals and dancings. Strife 
and pain, sorrow and death, suited ill with 
the minds of Betty and her son. Folk of 
Peace they, and such as they, are named ; 
and it is a good name for them. Times 
of war bring to life high thoughts and 
tender words ; and strong hearts grow 
stronger, and hard hearts soft when the 
slogan and the battle march are sounding. 
War is a rough soil that grows a fruitful 
crop peace can never produce. For such 
a crop neither Donald’s son nor Donald’s 
wife cared. They liked the sunshine, the 
leaping of the white salmon at the linn, 
bright faces, the fresh green touch of 
spring. We have our nature ; and they 
had theirs — it was fitted for pleasant 
things, and for pleasant things only. 

“A day came when pleasant things were 
scarce. The best of the clansmen were 
lying stark and stiff on a southern field. 


FAIRY FERLIE 


177 


From the Brig of Cally to the Spittal 
among the Hills no song was to be heard 
but the coronach, the lament for the brave 
ones who would return no more. On such 
a day Betty and her son were by the side 
of the Dun water. The lad was tired 
chasing the big blue hammer flies, and 
had thrown himself down on the grass. 

“ ‘ Mother,’ said he, ‘ this is a weary glen 
now. There is neither singing nor merry 
pipe-playing. I have forgotten how to 
dance.’ 

“ ‘ A little patience, Ferlie, my son, and 
the old times will be back. But you are 
in the right : it is a place of heavy air.’ 
And the fairy woman sighed for the 
cheerful elfin home she had not seen for 
many a long year. After a little she 
added, ‘ There are kind people here. We 
must not blame them that they have not 
our gift of lightness of heart.’ 

N 


178 


FAIKY FEELIE 


“ ‘ And have they not ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, laddie.’ 

“‘And why?’ 

“ ‘ Because they belong to a land of 
cold winds and heavy rains, of sorrow and 
death.’ Shuddering, Betty said it. 

“ ‘ But their land is our land,’ replied 
the lad. 

“ ‘ Not so. My land, your true land, is 
other than this. You have never seen it. I 
have not seen it for long, but — I remember!’ 

“ ‘ Where is this land you love so much, 
mother ? ’ 

“ ‘ You reach it by way of the Wood 
of Doonie.’ As she spoke Betty was 
twining threads of the silver fairy grass 
in Ferlie’s hair. 

“‘The Wood of Doonie — where I was 
last night ! The wind blows from it now, 
bringing the scent of wild pansies and 
wood dews. How sweet it is I ’ 


FAIRY FERLIE 


179 


“ ‘ It is the scent of all scents ! ’ 

“ The fairy mother drank in the pre- 
cious fragrance. Her mind was busy 
among far-away things. She saw the face 
of her father, the fairy king, and tripped 
it again with her fairy cousins on the 
grass beneath the birk trees. 

“ When her thoughts came back from 
their wandering she asked the lad what 
took him to the Wood of Doonie. 

“ ‘ Can I tell you ? ’ he answered. ‘ It 
was the stars, and the laughing water, 
and the beckoning wild blossoms, and a 
desire within • me — a desire for a light 
pleasure I have never had in this glen of 
kindly hearts but sad faces. Oh, how I 
wish folks would live in peace and hold 
their hands from strife ! ’ 

“ The mother nodded her head. She 
knew what her son felt. Many a time 
her quenchless desires and longings had 


180 


FAIRY FERLIE 


drawn her in the same direction, to the 
Wood of Doonie. ‘ Heard you no voice 
by the wood side ? ’ she questioned. 

“ ‘ Ay, that I did. My name was called 
in a wondrous sweet and wooing manner 
seven clear times.’ 

“ ‘ Like this ? ’ Betty repeated his name 
as a wood-dove might sing it at twilight. 

“ ‘ You have the true note ! ’ 

“ ‘ It was your kinsmen,’ said Betty, 
softly. ‘You understand them! — it is a 
sign you- are fit for their friendship.’ She 
was glad there was so much of the fairy 
in her son. 

“The lad continued, his face warm and 
eager : ‘ Hardly could I turn homewards 
so winning was the voice. I would have 
liked to plunge amid the dark coolness 
of the trees, where I fancied I heard shad- 
owy light laughter and caught glimpses 
of quick slender forms. Had it not been 


FAIEY FEKLIE 


181 


for thoughts of you, mother, the Glen had 
never seen me more.’ 

“‘You tell me strange things,’ mur- 
mured Betty. But indeed she did not 
think them strange. The hunger for 
sight and hearing of her early world was 
strong upon her. Her heart beat in tune 
with the lad’s. 

“ ‘ And there was more than calling of 
my name,’ continued Ferlie. ‘ I heard the 
merriest, sweetest air of all the world. 
The notes fell like sunlit rain-drops. What 
should I do there in the dark by the 
wood side but take to dancing and caper- 
ing like one moonstruck ! But the tune ! 
who could resist it ? ’ The lad puckered 
his lips and whistled what notes he could 
remember. 

“ ‘ Oh hush, hush, boy ! ’ exclaimed Betty, 
putting her fingers to her ears. ‘ It dirls 
me from head to toe ! How can I spend 


182 


FAIRY FERLIE 


long weary days in this dull place if you 
raise such wild notions in me ? ’ 

“ Ferlie took his mother’s hand and 
looked pleadingly into her eyes. ‘ Must 
we stay here always ? ’ said he. 

“ The fairy mother was touched. It 
was hard for her son that he, with the 
Quiet People’s blood in him, should never 
see the fair home of his under-world kin- 
dred, should never join in their moonlight 
revels. Why should she not take him on 
a visit to her father’s kingdom ? Now she 
came to think of it, so to do was what 
the solemn Glen people called a duty. 
But if she left her gudeman, Donald — 
poor, sober Donald, who thought so much 
of her ! — was it likely she would ever 
return to him from the home of her 
youth ? Difficult it was for her to make 
up her mind. 

« As she hesitated, the lad whistled 


FAIRY FERLIE 


183 


anew the fairy melody. A bright, moist 
light dawned in Betty’s eyes. Her little 
foot moved among the grasses ; her head 
swayed with the swing of the tune. 
‘ To-night, Ferlie,’ she cried impulsively, 
‘ you and I will go to the W ood of 
Doonie.’ 

“ At that minute Donald’s voice was 
heard rough and strong. ‘ Betty ! Betty ! 
where are you, lass ? It’s time the brose 
was ready.’ 

“ It was the last time Donald’s brose was 
mixed for him. After that night he had to 
mix it himself, and make his own bed as 
well. His son and his fairy wife never 
rested by his fireside again. Where they 
found a home it is the Wood of Doonie 
knows.” 


II 


« The Glen folk,” continued Neil of the 
white heard, “never had an enemy with a 
harder heart and a stronger arm than the 
Men of the Braes of Fernate.” 

“ The Fernate Men — our kindest friends 
always ! ” It was Conacher who broke in 
incredulous on the piper’s tale. 

“ The Fernate Men I said, and the Fer- 
nate Men I mean,” persisted Neil, dourly. 
“ Our good neighbours now — that I grant. 
It was not always so, as young Conacher 
thinks. Had it not been for these same 
small brown pipes, that will speak for no 
man living, our enemies and not our friends 
they had been at this hour. And if they 
are warm in peace they were hot indeed in 

war. In a tussle with them it was ever 
184 


FAIRY FBRLIE 


185 


a matter of winning everything or losing 
all. They were never the men to call for 
a parley in a half-fought fight. Their 
dunts were meant to go home ; and when 
luck was against them all the mercy they 
craved was a quick death. 

“ It was some years after the flitting of 
Fairy Ferlie and his mother that the thing 
happened. There were grave causes for 
dispeace between our folks and the Fernate 
Men. Blood had been spilt in a small way 
concerning stirks and grazing ground ; and 
the old earth hunger was on Fernate’s 
Chief, who had an eye to our green mead- 
ows by the Dunwater. It seems that the 
lifting of a fat herd of his black doddies 
was the final touch that moved him. 
Sticking his claymore in his belt, he swore 
by the Three Maids of Moulin — and that 
is a big oath — to make an end of us, the 
poor Glen folk. Easier said thhn done. 


186 


FAIKY FEKLIE 


lads ! The Glen has come scatheless 
through many a thunderstorm, and hopes 
to face many another yet. But through 
this one we came by no merit of our own. 

“ Swift feet brought the news that the 
Fernate fighters were on the march towards 
us. Dougal Rhu, Dougal the Red One, was 
our Chief at the time — you know his name 
for a claymore man. He caused the war 
pibroch to be sounded, and soon all the 
pretty men of the clan were assembled, 
eager and willing to be led against the in- 
vaders. It is a cheerful sight, and one we 
see seldom now in these lazy times of sow- 
ing and reaping, the sight of the battle-men 
as they leave the homeland, — every one 
clad in his best tartan and newest feather, 
as if he were stepping to a wedding. 
Buckles and steel polished and shining in 
the sun ; eyes bright with the thought of 
the coming struggle, and the chances 


FAIRY FERLIE 


187 


of winning honour and maybe something 
solid with it. And the women and bairns 
watching it all, proud of the handsome 
fellows, and gay as if it were a welcome 
home and not a farewell — perhaps a last 
one. For what woman at such a time 
would soften sweetheart or gudeman by 
foolish tears ? Leisure enough for these 
after ! 

“ DougaPs word was, ‘ Up the brae, 
lads, and westward ! ’ With good will he 
was obeyed, for he was a trusted leader. 
Before long the high black feathers of 
the Fernate Men were spied, nodding far 
away among the heather. It was over 
the long muir they were coming — the 
muir lying beside the Wood of Doonie. 
Glad were we the business was so near 
at hand. No weary waiting for us or 
for them ; but, instead, a quick rush each 
at the other’s throat. An hour would 


188 


FAIRY FERLIE 


decide it all. At the end we should 
either be cocks of the country-side, or of 
no more account than a lame, toothless 
collie dog.” 

“You were there?” asked doubting 
Conacher. “ It’s long, long since Dougal 
Rhu’s day.” 

“ I am there ! ” cried Neil, angrily. “ It’s 
all before me at this minute. Silence and 
listen ! When the clans were at striking 
distance they made a halt — the halt be- 
fore the deadly close. It was plain that 
Fernate’s Chief, like our Dougal, was an 
honest man, and liked his fight on an 
open field. No skulking behind bush or 
stone, no striking in the dark for these 
heroes ! They could not in all the high- 
lands have chanced on a fitter spot 
for their purpose than this muir by the 
Wood of Doonie. There was hardly shel- 
ter for leveret or partridge. It was no 


FAIRY FERLIE 


189 


war ground for cravens. But ‘cravens there 
were none. Every man was keen to be 
foot to foot, sword to sword, eye to eye, 
with some strong opponent. And none so 
eager as Dougal himself. 

“ ‘ Bid Colin strike up the war tune, and 
let us be at it ! ’ he cried. 

“ The word was passed to Colin, the 
piper ; but no music came from his pipes. 
Colin was drowsy as an owl at midday. 
Not a note' could he play. ‘ Drunk ! ’ said 
some ; but Colin had his tale to tell after, 
and it was this. As they were drawing 
near the skirts of the Wood of Doonie a 
thirst took him, and he stepped aside to 
the white well, the well by the green 
where the Good People bleach their linen. 
He was stooping to drink when a little 
fellow in a green ■ coat and a red cap 
politely gave him good-day, and offered 
him a draught from a bottle. No one 


190 


FAIRY FERLIE 


was surprised to hear drouthy Colin say 
that he accepted the invitation. After 
drinking he remembered no more of that 
day. In all time to come he had it firmly 
in his mind that some elfin friend of the 
Fernate Men had planned to take away 
the skill of the Glen folk’s piper. For it 
is known that men of the sword are of 
little use without the skirl of the pipes 
in their lugs to cheer them on, and raise 
thoughts in them of the old dead heroes. 

“ Colin’s story may be true — you have 
it as he gave it. It is certain there was 
no war pibroch for us, for none could 
finger the big pipes but Colin. Dougal 
grew dark with anger at the drunk piper, 
but what could he do ? With big, heart- 
stirring words he strove to make up for 
the lack of music. Of our fathers he spoke 
and their deeds, and of the wonaen and 
lint-haired children left behind in the Glen. 


FAIRY FERLIE 


191 


The hot blood came to the cheeks of the 
clansmen, and, drawing their claymores, 
they rushed wrathful and silent towards 
the enemy. 

“They too were already on the move. 
Strange that they also should be without 
the kindly strain of the pipes ! What had 
happened to their piper I never’ learnt. 
But some mischanter had befallen him. 
Like our Colin, he was unfit for his 
business. 

“The clans were leaping at each other 
like dumb savage dogs with teeth dis- 
played. In another breath or two they 
would be at grips, and blood would be 
pouring fast. All hearts were prepared, 
every muscle was braced for the deadly 
tussle, when on the ear there fell at last 
the voice of the pipes. But not a battle 
strain ! Oh, no ! a lilt ! the blithest, the 
lightest, the most tripping merry measure 


192 


FAIRY FERLIE 


man ever heard. The notes of the ‘Gipsy 
Laddie ’ reel are quick and gay ; the ‘ Gipsy 
Laddie ’ is a psalm tune to what this was. 
The soul of peaceful mirth was in the 
spring ; no mortal foot could resist it. And 
it was these same little brown pipes with 
the green ribbons you are fingering now, 
Conacher, that gave it forth. They were 
borne on the shoulders of young Ferlie, 
Donald’s son, who had joined his fairy 
kinsmen, and who had come out of the 
Wood of Doonie to blow peace between 
the Braes of Fernate fighters and the folk 
of the Glen.” 

“ And what happened ? ” questioned 
Conacher. 

« What happened ? This : Fernate sword 
clinked against Glen sword, but not in 
wrath — the music was too full of glad 
peace for that; not a drop of blood was 
shed ; not a fierce blow was struck ; but 


FAIRY FERLIE 


193 


eye looked into eye with neighbourly kind- 
ness and hilarity. As the one host trip- 
pingly mingled with the other, the blades 
ehimed happily together to the beat of the 
fairy reel. A dance it had turned out and 
no battle ! Before the- dance that is called 
the Dance of the Swords was over those 
who on the muir beside the Wood of 
Doonie had met as foes were the dearest 
of friends.” 

“And Ferlie, the fairy piper, the man of 
peace ? ” 

“ Leaving his pipes behind him, he passed 
into the wood and was heard of never 
again. But his services have not been 
needed. War has no more been threat- 
ened near his dwelling-place. When it is, 
here are the brown pipes ready for his use ; 
and, take an old piper’s word for it, the 
kindly peace-loving creature will not be 
backward in putting breath into them.” 




















IX 

THE “WISE WOMAN'' 



IX 


THE “WISE WOMAN” 

The storm was high when Alisoun Pear- 
soun set out across the muir. The rain 
had the edge of a sword, and , the wind 
raged with the desperate spite of an evil 
spirit. But the frail old woman heeded 
not the rancour of the elements. With 
unblinking eyes she gazed on the frequent 
blue bolts that rent the clouds, and heard 
undismayed the pealings of the thunder. 
Steadily she pursued ’her heavy course 
amongst the hard boulders and the rough, 
stunted grass. Even on reaching the croy, 
or stepping-stones, over the swollen Brora 
she did not falter. From stone to stone 
197 


198 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


she leapt, without pausing for a moment 
to consider her fate should her foot slip 
and she fall into the black flood. 

The Brora crossed, Alisoun turned her 
steps towards the higher ground. Far 
up the hillside lay her destination. The 
sheep-track, which by daylight she would 
have followed, was at this late hour 
invisible ; yet with an instinct unerring 
and unresting she pushed on, and ere 
long came in sight of the cottage for 
which she was bound. A dagger of 
lightning revealed it — a little, dripping, 
beggarly place, with a cow-shed or a hen- 
house at one end. Drawing nearer, she was 
able to make out that a feeble light — a 
farthing dip likely — was burning within. 
But the miserable window could hardly 
be said to be illuminated by it. 

The woman put her hand to the latch, 
and entered without knocking. The 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


199 


wind followed, extinguishing the gutter- 
ing candle that stood on a plain deal 
table. 

“ Wha’s there ? ” came in a dying 
voice out of the darkness. “ Is’t you, 
Alisoun ? ” 

“ Ay, it’s me.” 

“ You’re no’ ower soon. I’m near 
by wi’ ’t. Licht the can’le.” 

In the fireplace was a peat or two. 
Alisoun knelt, and with her mouth blew 
them into a drudging flame. “ There’s 
licht enough for a’ we hae to do,” she 
said. “ What want you wi’ me, John 
Balsillie ? ” 

“ What should it be, Alisoun, woman, 
but dear life itsel’ ? ” The voice strove 
hard to be gracious, but long years of 
bitterness and hard dealing had rendered 
it unpleasant and querulous. The speaker 
lay on a bed but sparely supplied with 


200 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


blankets. The dim peat glow revealed him 
as an old man nearing the last good-by. 

“ Life ! ” exclaimed the woman, con- 
temptuously ; “ you’ve haen your measure 
o’t heapit an’ rinnin’ ower. Echty year or 
thereby you’ve tasted the licht o’ the 
bonny sun. What hae you made o’t ? ” 
She glanced round the beggarly place. 
“ Twa or three pieces o’ gowd in a 
stockin’ ! Your tether’s been lang enough 
for a’ the gude you’ve done.” 

“ Alisoun, woman, dinna speak like 
that,” whined the sick man. “ I’ve been 
nae waur than my neebours.” He paused, 
panting and exhausted. After a while he 
resumed in a tone hardly above a whisper : 
“ Tell me — did you meet onybody as you 
cam’ up the brae ? ” 

“ No’ a body.” 

* 

“ There was ane here,” — the speaker 
looked about him fearfully, — “a man, I 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


201 


think. But how he cam’ in, or how he 
gaed out, I dinria ken. Wha could he 
be?” 

“ What like was he ? ” 

“ An’ auld man wi’ a grey beard, an’ 
a hard blue e’e. His breath was cauld on 
my cheek like winter sleet.” 

“ Had he a hookit neb, an’ a wart abune 
the e’ebrow ? ” 

“The same, Alisoun, the same. What’s 
his name ? He’s no’ kent i’ thae parts ? ” 
Faintly the old man spoke, but in deep 
anxiety, as if life depended on the answer. 

Alisoun replied with some scorn for his 
obtuseness : “ It maun be lang sin’ you saw 
your ain weary face in a glass, John 
Balsillie, or you wadna need to ask me sic 
questions. Mind, your baird’s no sae dark 
now as aince it was, nor is your brow sae 
smooth ! There was little use sendin’ for 
me — a silly auld wife — when you had 


202 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


gotten your summons. Your wraith maun 
be tired waitin’.” 

With a sob Balsillie hid his withered 
face on the pillow. I feared as muckle, 
I feared as muckle,” he moaned. Then 
with surprising energy, and raising himself 
on his bed, he continued, <^But, Alisoun, 
woman, you hae the power — dinna say 
you haena ! — to save me even now. You 
took Geordie Welsh’s lassie out o’ the teeth 
o’ death. What for should you no’ tak’ me ? ” 

“Geordie Welsh’s lassie was a fresh 
green leaf wi’ a’ the summer afore her. 
You’re but a dried-up do’ken fit only for 
the winter fire.” 

“ I’ll gie you siller, Alisoun, gude siller, 
gin you’ll say your healin’ words ower me. 
See ! here’s a bonny white piece. An’ 
there’ll be mair to come aince I’m on my 
legs again. Am I no’ speakin’ you fair ? ” 
From under his pillow Balsillie took a 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


203 


silver coin and offered it in his skinny 
hand. Mingled eagerness and cunning 
were in his fading eyes. 

“Think you I’ll risk body and soul for 
sic a miser fee ? ” exclaimed Alisoun Pear- 
soun, in rising anger. “ It’s like your greed, 
John Balsillie ! Weel do you ken that it’s 
the cart-tail and the tar-barrel I would get 
were I found at my forbidden practices. 
But ” — her wrath subsiding — “ it’s maybe 
a’ your puir pennyworth o’ life is worth.” 

“ I’ll gie onything in reason, onything in 
reason, only dinna deny me. It’s no’ for 
life’s sake only — nae great business at the 
best ! — I’m cravin’ you. But Jamie, my 
sailor laddie, he’s been lang awa’ ; some- 
thing tells me he’ll soon be hame. I would 
fain see him again afore I dee. Oh, Ali- 
soun, you had a son yoursel’ ! ” 

The callous old woman’s heart was 
touched. “ Say nae mair, John,” answered 


•204 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


she after a pause. “ I’ll do what 1 
can.” 

She set on the fire an iron pot, into 
which she poured a little water. Then, 
taking from a leathern pouch beneath her 
gown a piece of crystal bored through the 
centre, she dropped it into the liquid. Pa- 
tiently she watched the water come a-boil. 
The sick man lay on his back, the while 
drawing difficult breath ; and so tired out 
as to be almost unconscious of his com- 
panion’s presence and preparations. When 
the brew was ready the wise woman took 
a little in a wooden caup, and gave it to 
the patient. Eagerly Balsillie swallowed 
the draught. Next, three times round the 
bed Alisoun strode widderschynnes. As 
she went she muttered : — 

“By charmed broth and charmed stane 
I heal the flesh, I heal the bane. 

Come out, come out, thou sickness ill, 

An’ bide whar I shall put thee tiU.” 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


205 


This over, she laid her hands on Balsillie’s 
head, and drew them suddenly away as if 
a wasp had stung her. 

“ Hae you a cat i’ the house ? ” she in- 
quired hastily. 

“ Na, na ; X ne’er likit their sleekit ways.” 

« Or a dog ? ” 

“ A dog would eat me out o’ house an’ 
hand.” 

“ Then it maun be the coo i’ the byre ! ” 

“ Dinna harm the coo that gies the gude 
milk, Alisoun.” 

“ Whar can I put it then ? ” cried the 
witch woman in hot displeasure as well as 
fear. Her hands were held as if they con- 
tained something; but indeed they were 
empty. 

The old man answered not. A change 
had come over him. His cheek had a hint 
of crimson on it ; and he was fallen into a 
slumber deep and peaceful. 


206 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


111 at ease, Alisoun Pearsoun looked 
round her. What was she to do ? In her 
own flesh was now the evil she had 
charmed from Balsillie’s body. She must 
either get rid of it promptly, or be prepared 
to sacrifice herself in his stead. There was 
no living thing at hand to which she could 
transfer the sickness she felt growing 
within her. As in distress she searched 
her mind for a remedy, there happened a 
loud knocking at the door. 

A man entered, a weary man who had 
fared ill at the hands of the tempest. His 
coat was tattered and mud-stained ; and his 
wet hair — cap he had none — fell over 
his brow, obscuring his eyes. On his 
shoulder was a bundle such as a packman 
might carry. “ God be thanked ! here’s 
shelter at last,” was his ejaculation on 
crossing the threshold. “ It’s a terrible 
night.” 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


207 


“ Some gangrel frae the south o’ sma’ 
account,” reflected Alisoun, helping him off 
with his burthen. For a single instant her 
hand rested on the man’s shoulder, and she 
gazed, open-mouthed and ganting, into his 
face. He shivered as if touched by an icy 
wind. 

The woman hastened to stir up the fire 
and prepare a little food for the wanderer. 
He was able, however — to his own surprise 
— to eat but little. Her hospitable duties 
over, Alisoun said : “ I maun awa’ hame, 
storm an’ a’thegither. I dinna bide here. 
Let the auld body sleep ; he hasna been 
weel. Mak’ yoursel’ as easy’s you can 
afore the fire.” After a moment she 
added, “ You’ll maybe no’ feel the dis- 
comfort lang. Gude nicht, an’ a blithe 
waukenin’ to you.” 

When she was gone the storm-beaten 
man sat eying the red peats. A strange 


208 


THE ‘‘WISE WOMAN 


weariness was on him. In his bones a 
dull pain was growing, and the skin of 
his brow and head was tight and chill. He 
sank into a brief and uneasy slumber. On 
awakening he remembered a feathered com- 
panion. Ere he should again sleep, he took 
from his pack a cage which held a green 
and red parrot. This he set beside himself 
near the fire. The bird, feeling the pleas- 
ant warmth, chuckled happily, recalling, 
perhaps, its sunny native land over the 
seas. With the sound in his ears, the 
gangrel fell asleep once more. In one 
attitude he slept on his stool till the 
peats were dead ashes, and the storm was 
over. He was still asleep when an early 
and distdnt cock crowed. 

As the cold light of dawn crept through 
the narrow casement, John Balsillie awoke. 
To his wonder the fever had left him. His 
pulse was steady and slow. The pain was 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


209 


gone from his head. He seemed even to be 
conscious of a gathering strength. Then he 
called to mind Alisoun Pearsoun and her 
incantation. “ I hope she hasna harmed 
the coo,” he said inwardly. A strange cry, 
or shriek rather, shook his soul. “ Heaven 
help us ! what’s this ? ” he exclaimed. 
Glancing about with the timidity of help- 
less age, he perceived the man and parrot 
at the dark fireside. The thought — never 
far from his mind — of his son took hold 
of him. “ It’s Jamie himsel’, it’s Jamie 
himsel’, wi’ a bird, hame frae the Indies ! ” 
he cried exultingly. “ Puir laddie, he’s 
sleepin’.” 

Eager to behold his son’s face, the old 
man crawled painfully from his bed 
towards the stool whereon the returned 
sailor was sitting. “ Ay, it’s him, sure 
enough,” he murmured ; “ an’ a braw 

fellow he is ! I maunna wauken him ; 


210 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


he’ll be sair tired. I’ll get some porritch 
ready — he was aye fond o’ his porritch.” 

To and fro old Balsillie tottered, pre- 
paring a meagre banquet in celebration of 
the joyous occasion. The sleeper sat ut- 
terly still. After a time even the dull 
senses of the aged father were impressed 
by the unearthly quiet. 

“This is no’ like Jamie ava,” was his 
thought. “ Frae a bairn he an’ noise were 
never lang sindered.” 

More nearly than before he examined 
the loved features of the returned one. 
“ God ! ” he exclaimed in a whisper, and 
thinking the thing too horrible for belief, 
“ it canna be, canna be — back — an’ ” 
— his lips would not say it — “ dead.” 

Certainty at length dawned upon him. 
“This is Alisoun Pearsoun’s witch wark, 
damn her ! ” he cried frantically. Then, 
quite shaken, he fell at his son’s knee. 


THE “WISE WOMAN 


211 


tears streaming down his face. “ Oh 
Jamie, Jamie,” he wailed, in hitter grief, 
“ that you should gie your young life for 
me, an auld spent — ” 

The harsh cry of the parrot overpowered 
his feeble voice. Then there was silence. 

















X 




THE BAKD 



X 


THE BARD 

Ease should follow labour, and a feast 
is welcome after a long hunt. As it is to- 
day, so it was in the old times. Leaves 
change, but the trees are ever green, and 
the heart of man alters not. The Sons of 
Murtogh had been busy with the ale-cup 
and flesh roasted and boiled. Blazing pine 
logs on the hearth revealed red stains of 
the morning’s chase on many a naked arm 
and breast. Over the fireplace was fixed 
the antlered head of a stag, and the blood 
yet dripped from it with a hiss amongst 
the embers. The feast was over, and 
ruddy faces and lazy recumbent forms 
showed how fully it had been enjoyed. 
The long low table was strewn with 


216 


216 


THE BARD 


empty dishes and overthrown wooden 
bickers. 

By the ingleside, and apart from the 
others, sat Fergus the Bard, his fingers 
toying nervously with the strings of his 
harp. The old fellow’s look was noble, 
but he had the keen piercing eye of that 
poet who finds delight in the life around 
him, not the dreaming vision of him who 
lives in his own thoughts and contemplates 
what has passed away. 

^^They call not for tale or song,” said 
Fergus to himself in discontent — why ? 
A degenerate race that cares only to eat 
and drink ! Or do they think I am too old 
to stir their blood ? That cannot be. 
Well they know the young man is not who 
can match me. Were they only to hear 
my new strain ! Fire and war are in the 
heart of it. But they shall ask twice or I 
raise my voice for them, lazy dogs ! ” 


THE BARD 


217 


Not long had the Bard to wait for the 
request. It was the Chief himself that 
spoke. “Why,” he asked, “is the Bard 
silent ? Has he no song wherewith to 
cheer the hunters after their weary day ? ” 

The Bard felt a quick joy, hut he an- 
swered, “ It would seem from the sound in 
their nostrils that there are some who 
relish hut their own music.” 

“ Come, stir yourselves ! ” cried the 
Chief; and he caused the sleepers to he 
rudely aroused. 

“Further,” continued Fergus, though his 
fingers were itching to he at the strings, 
“ I am hardly in the vein. A chill — ” 

“ Old dotard,” broke in the Chief, “ if 
you would save your hide, delay no longer, 
hut let us hear your voice he it cracked or 
sound.” 

“ What shall I sing ? ” asked the Bard, 
sullenly. 


218 


THE BAKD 


^^What you will. Or let it be of love, 
rather. The liquor breeds soft thoughts.” 

From the eyes of the minstrel shot con- 
temptuous fire. Nay,” answered he, I 
am somewhat old. The key of love suits 
not with my strings. List, O Sons of 
Murtogh ! ” He broke into a rhapsody, 
telling, not of love, but of hate. In the 
minds of the listeners were raised, instead 
of soft thoughts, thoughts of war, rapine, 
and plunder. Sinewy hands clutched at 
spear or dirk. 

When he had made an end the Bard 
glanced around, and by the heightened 
colour of each cheek and the brighter 
gleam in every eye perceived, well pleased, 
the effect of his art. 

“ Ha ! ” cried the Chief, you still sing 
with a true note, Fergus, keen one. 
Rightly do you ask wherefore we add day 
to day in pleasure and slothful feasting, 


THE BARD 


219 


while for full twelve moons the Children of 
the Pine have hunted and fished, have sown 
and reaped, with none to make them fear- 
ful ! To the wife each night has returned 
the husband, to the maiden the lover, and 
in the loch the child has dipped without 
harm. Sons of Murtogh, lovers of war, 
shall this endure ? ” 

“ Nay ! ” came from the deep throats of 
the savage hunters, in whose ears the 
kindling song of Fergus yet rang; “the 
Children of the Pine — the old foe — shall 
perish utterly.” 

As the echoes died away among the high 
rafters, a white figure crossed the threshold 
of the hall and paused. The fierce Sons of 
Murtogh, dusky-brown and blood-stained, 
and their Chief, turned astonished eyes on 
the intruder. 

“ The peace of God,” said he, “ which 
passeth ken be on this dwelling.” 


220 


THE BARD 


It was as if one from the quiet world 
had spoken. For the voice of blessing was 
a strange voice, a voice that came from a 
heart where dwelt not fury, nor desire, nor 
hate, nor any evil passion of man. 

After the White Stranger had satisfied 
hunger and thirst the Chief turned to him 
and said : — 

“You have wandered far, O fair youth. 
Have you no song to sing us, no story to 
tell of other lands ? ” 

“ I have little art of song,” was the reply, 
“ but I have the story of all stories to tell. 
Gladly, in recompense for your hospitality, 
will I declare it. Behold its symbol.” 
From under his white garment the youth 
took a crucifix and displayed it to the 
wondering eyes of the Sons of Murtogh. 
Then he told the warriors and huntsmen 
the simple, soft tale of the Shepherds and 
the Star, of Mary and the Holy Babe ; and 


THE BAED 


221 


far into the rude northern night he was 
heard with hushed gladness. 

“ To-morrow,” said the Chief, « we will 
hear more of this strange tale of peace. 
Never dreamt I peace wore so fair a face.” 

« Nay,” said the angry Bard, raging to see 
his province of tale-teller invaded, “ to- 
morrow you bear arms against the Children 
of the Pine.” 

“ True,” replied the Chief, « I had for- 
gotten. But a day matters not. After the 
stranger’s tale is o’er. Slumber deep, 
Fergus, king of bards.” 

Night after night the Sons of Murtogh 
listened to the tale of the White Youth ; 
and night by night the rage of the Bard 
waxed. His lay was uncalled for, and the 
veneration he had been used to receive was 
passing away. The hated Children of the 
Pine, too, were flourishing, and their name 
was becoming great in the land. “ Alas ! ” 


222 


THE BARD 


complained the Bard to Angus, a fellow- 
lover of the old gods, “ the glory of the 
Sons of Murtogh is departed ; the rottenness 
of peace has eaten into their souls. Hark ! 
the everlasting bell for prayer! Our clan 
is a clan of women and worships a babe. 
Oh, for the ancient warrior-gods of iron ! ” 
A psalm came on the wind, a psalm lugu- 
brious, uncouth. “ Now they sing ! What 
think you of it, Angus ? Food for laugh- 
ter, is it not ? Chief, chief, that leathern 
throat of yours was never meant for song!” 

“ And a man of silver tongue — yourself, 
Fergus, tuneful one — silent, unused, oh, it 
is pitiful ! ” exclaimed Angus, feeding the 
Bard’s flaming thoughts. 

“ Silent will I and my harp remain for 
ever sooner than do the Chief’s bidding.” 

“ What was his will, Fergus of the sweet 
strings ? ” 

“ Hardly for belief. He would have me 


THE BARD 


223 


tune my note to the White Youth’s dragging, 
weary psalms. But, with a black word, I 
gave him back. No ! Rather would I plunge 
me in the Dunwater than join in their mild 
babblings of peace. The curse of the old 
gods upon the White Youth and his soft, 
taking arts ! ” 

Wandering disconsolate by the side of the 
deep and dark stream, and thinking bitterly 
of his overthrow, Fergus beheld, on a rock 
above the river’s marge, the author of all his 
misery, the cause of his race’s decline. The 
sun was setting and the form of the White 
Youth, dark against the brightness of the 
heavens, knelt facing the west. “ How 
easy,” reflected the jealous minstrel, “ to 
silence for ever his passionless rage-stirring 
voice, and at a blow restore the olden days 
of glory for warrior and bard ! ” A thought 
executed almost as soon as conceived. The 
hand of the poet wrought what hitherto his 


224 


THE BARD 


heart had only imagined and his song de- 
clared. A few quiet steps, a thrust, and 
the thing was done. With one piercing cry 
the White Youth disappeared amid the 
gloomy waters. Homeward the exultant 
Bard turned, meditating the deed in rhyme. 

Again it is the twilight hour, and the 
Sons of Murtogh are gathered as is their 
wont. But the White Youth is strangely 
absent. Without his quiet face and reason- 
able word the time goes heavily by. Long 
he is waited for, but in vain. 

The Chief yawns, and his head falls 
sleepily forward on his breast. 

Impatiently Fergus the Bard tunes the 
harp that needs not tuning. 

At the sound the Chief opens his eyes. 
“ It is you, old fellow,” he says dully. 

Rapidly Fergus fingers some notes. 

• “ Ha ! ” cries the Chief, his face brighten- 


THE BARD 


225 


ing, “ a new lilt ! After all there is the 
spirit in you, though your voice be cracked. 
Give it us, friend of old.” 

And the Bard bursts into a war chant full 
of ferocity and gladness. Never had he 
sung more clearly or with greater fire. Age 
seemed to have fallen from him. The grey- 
beards whispered he was again the wonder 
he had been in his youth ; the young men 
who were singers were shamed at the 
volume and rush of his voice — where among 
themselves was a successor to this mighty 
minstrel ? But in the hearts of the warriors 
the song sank deepest. Nothing said they, 
but a red vision rose before their eyes, and 
their pulses stirred. 

Loudly Angus, he who loved the old gods, 
cried to the Chief, “ Surely this is before 
your psalm-dirges ! Honour to Fergus the 
Bard ! ” 

And loudly the Chief and his kinsmen re- 


226 


THE BAED 


peated the shout of Angus, “Honour to 
Fergus the Bard ! ” 

Within seven days the Children of the 
Pine were swept by the sword from hill and 
muir ; and the Sons of Murtogh thought no 
more of the Babe of Peace, 


The Mettle of the Pasture 

By JAMES LANE ALLEN 

Author of “The Choir Invisible,” “A Kentucky Cardinal,” 

etc., etc. 

Cloth 12010 $1*50 


“‘The Mettle of the Pasture’ contains more characters and a 
greater variety of them, it has more versatility, more light and shade, 
more humor, than any of his previous books. The story, too, is wider 
in scope and the central tragedy draws irresistibly to it. . . . 

“ ‘ The Mettle of the Pasture ’ is a novel of greatness ; it is so far 
Mr. Allen’s masterpiece ; a work of beauty and finished art. There 
can be no question of its supreme place in our literature ; there can 
be no doubt of its wide acceptance and acceptability. More than any 
of his books it is destined to an enviable popularity. It does not take 
extraordinary prescience to predict an extraordinary circulation for it.” 

— James MacArthur in a review in the August Reader. 

“ It may be that * The Mettle of the Pasture ’ will live and become a 
part of our literature ; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted term 
of present-day fiction. Our principal concern is that it is a notable 
novel, that it ranks high in the entire range of American and English 
fiction, and that it is worth the reading, the re-reading, and the con- 
tinuous appreciation of those who care for modern literature at its 
best.” — The Boston Transcript, 

“In ‘The Mettle of the Pasture’ Mr. Allen has reached the high- 
water mark thus far of his genius as a novelist. The beauty of his 
literary style, the picturesque quality of his description, the vitality, 
fulness, and strength of his artistic powers never showed to better ad- 
vantage. . . . Its reader is fascinated by the picturesque descrip- 

tions, the humor, the clear insight, and the absolute interest of his 
creations.” — The Brooklyn Eagle, 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

6 (> Fifth Avcnac, New York 


The Can of the Wad 


By JACK LOrroON 

Author of “ The Children of the Frost,” etc., etc. 
Illustrated Cloth izmo $1.50 


All those who have read it believe that Jack London’s new story, “ The Call of 
the Wild,” will prove one of the half-dozen memorable books of 1903. This story 
takes hold of the universal things in human and animal nature; it is one of those 
strong, thrilling, brilliant things which are better worth reading the second time than 
the first. Entertaining stories we have in plenty ; but this is something more — it is 
a piece of literature. At the same time it is an unforgetable picture of the whole 
wild, thrilling, desperate, vigorous, primeval life of the Klondike regions in the years 
after the gold fever set in. It ranks beside the best things of its kind in English 
literature. 

The tale itself has for its hero a superb dog named Buck, a cross between a 
St. Bernard and a Scotch shepherd. Buck is stolen from his home in Southern Cali- 
fornia, where Judge Miller and his family have petted him, taken to the Klondike, 
and put to work drawing sledges. First he has to be broken in, to learn “ the law 
of club and fang.” His splendid blood comes out through the suffering and abuse, 
the starvation and the unremitting toil, the hardship and the fighting and the bitter 
cold. He wins his way to the mastership of his team. He becomes the best sledge 
dog in Alaska. And all the while there is coming out in him “ the dominant primor- 
dial beast.’* 

But meantime, all through the story, the interest is almost as much in the human 
beings who own Buck, or who drive him, or who come in contact with him or his 
masters in some way or other, as in the dog himself. He is merely the central figure 
in an extraordinarily graphic and impressive picture of life. 

In none of his previous stories has Mr. London achieved so strong a grip on his 
theme. In none of them has he allowed his theme so strongly to grip him. He has 
increased greatly in his power to tell a story. The first strong note in the book is 
the coming out of the dog’s good blood through infinite hardship ; the last how he 
finally obeyed “ the call of the wild ” after his last and best friend, Thornton, was 
killed by the Indians. 

It has been very greatly praised during its serial run, Mr. Mabie writing in The 
Outlook of “ its power and its unusual theme. . . . This remarkable story, full of 
incident and of striking descriptions of life and landscape in the far north, contains a 
deep truth which is embedded in the narrative and is all the more effective because it 
is never obtruded.” 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

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People of the Whirlpool 

From the Experience Book of a G)mmoter's Wife 

By the Author of 

**The Garden of a Commute/ s Wife** 

With Eight Full-page Illustrations 

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" The book is in every way a worthy companion to its very popular 
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“ Altogether the story is fascinating, holding the attention with its 
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— Grand Rapids Herald, 

‘‘ The whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its 
just perspections of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of 
people and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in 
general.” — Philadelphia Telegraph, 


Anne Carmel 

By GWENDOLEN OVERTON 
Author of ^^The Heritage of Unrest^' 

With Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller 

Cloth i2mo $1.50 

** A novel of uncommon beauty and depth ... in every way an un- 
usual book.” — Louisville Times, 

One of the few very important books of the year.” 

— The Suny New York. 

“ Is so far above the general run of the fiction of to-day as to be 
strongly attractive, just because of this contrast, but it is, for itself, 
something to move heart and brain to quick action and deep admira- 
tion.” — Nashville American, 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

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